The Incorrigible Lyra Black
by Marilee Susan Way
Summary: Lyra Black is a liar, a thief, an eavesdropper and in the opinion of most, a generally intolerable little girl. But the inhabitants of Hogwarts would just like to know, is she also a murderer?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and settings belonging to the world of Harry Potter, trademarked by the marvelous J. K. Rowling, without whom, none of this would be possible. It is meant for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to reap any sort of financial gain.

**Chapter 1: A Strange Letter**

The thing about foster homes is: they're always loud.

Of course that's not the only thing. They're also messy, smell like melted crayons, and filled with snot-nosed orphan kids that don't like to wash up before dinner.

In the opinion of Lyra Black though, the never-ending racket was the worst. Lyra was what could be considered a veteran foster child. Eleven years old and she had lived in foster homes all over Great Britain and been adopted what must be some sort of record, five separate times. The police constables that got stuck with driving her from one home to the next all agreed it was that which made her so unpleasant.

Lyra would have said it was the noise. Even sitting outside by herself on what should have been a quiet, albeit muggy afternoon, it was loud. Someone had left the dirty old upstairs windows open and the voices of Lyra's twelve newest foster siblings all floated down on the breeze.

Lyra would have liked very much for the lot of them to just shut up for a few minutes. And the singing! If they could stop all that dreadful singing, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad... Lyra had never been so lucky though. The problem was, loud as it was in a foster home, it made eavesdropping entirely too difficult.

So there Lyra sat, one ear pressed to the house's back door, straining to hear what Lyra considered a very important conversation on the other side. It was between the foster mother, Caroline Berning, and Carl Riggs, one of the two constables who had driven Lyra all the way from Exeter that morning. Most likely they were only debating exactly what it was that was wrong with Lyra—these sorts of people always did. She would've liked to know for sure though.

Instead, the only thing Lyra could hear were the 12 other orphans in the home and their 12 obnoxious voices. Worst of any of them was the sickeningly animated voice of the one girl Lyra had met so far.

Her name was Moira Darling. She was the oldest and the pleasantest orphan of the lot, and being such, had taken it upon herself to read an afternoon fairy tale to the rest of them. Most might have called the girl a talented story teller. Her voice was captivating and rather like singing.

"And then," Moira Darling would say, voice full of anticipation, "Angelique dressed in the knight's armour and set off to face the dragon herself."

Lyra was not most though. She dragged herself away from the back door and found the heaviest, roundest rock in all of Ms. Berning's back garden.

"The dragon was taller than the stars," sang Moira, "And had teeth wide as tree trunks."

Lyra lobbed the rock hard as she would a ticking bomb. It flew through the air with impressive speed angling right for Moira Darling's stupid head.

"And when it opened its mouth to growl—hey! Ouch something hit me!"

"Stupid dragon," muttered Lyra and she returned to her spot by the door where she wouldn't be seen.

"Who's out there?" called Moira, "Who threw that? I'll tell Ms. Berning."

Lyra rolled her eyes. "Is that really necessary?"

"Lyra Black, is that you? I'm telling Ms. Berning on you! You'd better come out!"

Now Lyra was stuck. She wanted to keep listening—trying to hear what the foster mother and Constable Riggs had to say about her—but she imagined Ms. Berning would not at all be pleased to find her at the scene of the crime. She gave up on eavesdropping for now and instead snuck around to the front of the house.

There were fewer trees on the front side, and the garden was much less grown over. There were plenty of bushes though, several with wilted flowers that rustled in the breeze and one peculiar bush covered in fruit Lyra had never seen before.

There was a small blue car parked in the drive and the passenger side door stood wide open. The other constable who had driven her that morning sat with his legs out the side, chomping on an unlit cigarette. Lyra grinned when she saw him—perhaps she would find out what Ms. Berning and the other constable were talking about after all.

"Aren't you going to light it," said Lyra, walking toward the man.

His name was Constable Dale Dimms and from the way he jumped and hit his head on the door jam, Lyra determined he hadn't noticed her approach. She smirked.

"What'd'you think you're doin, yeh bl–!" he cut off abruptly and glared at Lyra. He was a portly sort of fellow with thick brown hair and a tanned neck. His glare was not nearly as intimidating as he might have liked though.

"That is," he said, rubbing his head and visibly working to calm himself, "What exac'ly are you doin' out here now, Black? You're s'posed to be inside with the other kids."

"Only wondering what you're up to is all."

Constable Dimms eyed her distrustfully, "Yeah, I'm sure tha's all it is—an' my name's Charlie Chaplin."

"Well, aren't _you_ supposed to be inside with Constable Riggs?"

"Jus' came out to have a smoke."

Lyra looked pointedly at the still unlit butt.

He shifted, "Alrigh' fine, truth is, I'm tryin' to quit. Nasty habit, smokin'."

Lyra waited, one hand in her pocket tracing the designs of a brass pocket watch. "And?" she prompted.

"Damn persistent, that's what you are," said Dimms, "If you must know, tha' Berning woman's a fright and I didn't much like speakin' with her."

"Why not?"

"Cause she's about as mean as they come. But then again," he added, narrowing his eyes at Lyra, "I imagine the two of you'd fall in like peas in a pod. And that bein' said, listen Black, I know it must be hard on you, always movin' from one home to the next, but that's hardly any reason to—."

"Yeah I know," snapped Lyra, cutting him off. The wind gave a hefty gust, and Lyra contined, "I've heard that before, so you can save it, alright? Just tell me what they're talking about in there." She motioned over her shoulder to the oaken front door of the home.

"Reckon if they'd wanted you to know, they'd've asked you in with them, wouldn't they."

"They should've!" said Lyra vehemently, "It's me they're discussing, so I've a right to hear it!"

"Yeah, yeah, and the guilty party's got a right to face his accuser. I've heard tha' one before so now you can save it."

"So they are accusing me of something, then," said Lyra.

"A course they are! Your file's thicker 'n a brick and that last family, the Hornes want you locked up for bein' a delinquent," Dimms ranted, puffing up his chest as he spoke, "They say you tried to poison their cat, they say. And who knows what you've done to the rest of 'em. The Ashkelons left the bleedin' country, didn't they, and without so much as a forwardin' address. It's all just… just… say, what is that?"

Lyra took a deep breath and relaxed. The sky was overcast like it would soon rain, but the unnatural wind which had just blown through Ms. Berning's front garden had had nothing to do with the weather.

"That's the real reason the Ashkelon's left the country," grumbled Lyra, glaring down at one of the strange radish-looking fruit which had come loose in the wind.

"You say somethin', Black?" asked Constable Dimms.

Lyra looked up.

Dimms in turn was staring at her with his broad, open face, waiting to hear her. He wanted to hear her, even. What an idiot. Did he really think an eleven year old had something that interesting to say?

"Nothing," she told him.

"If you say so."

They were both quiet after that, Lyra wishing she had done much worse to the Hornes and Dimms chewing away like a bloody cow.

At last the constable tossed the butt out on the ground and stretched. He felt around in his breast pocket, and then the pocket of his trousers, searching for something.

"You've not got the time, have you?" he said, still fumbling with his pockets.

"Nope."

He shrugged. "Ah well, I reckon I ought to head back in anyway."

Lyra nodded and picked up the peculiar red fruit from the ground by her feet. For looking like a radish, it was surprisingly soft and it smelled almost… almost sweet.

"And you too, Black!" he added when she didn't move to follow him.

"I'm staying out here," she informed him.

"Oh no you're not. You're s'posed to be inside with everyone else."

"I'd rather stay out here."

Dimms did not look pleased by the news. "It'll be rainin' out here in a few minutes, and then what'll you do?"

"Try not to get wet."

Constable Dimms crossed his thick arms and glared, "Now you listen to me, Black. You'll stop being such a brat, and you'll get inside like I told you. Understand?"

"Only if you let me come with you to talk with Ms. Berning and Constable Riggs."

"If they'd wanted you in with 'em, they would've…"

Dimms trailed off as Lyra turned to walk away.

"Fine then," he said through gritted teeth, "Come along then if you must. I doubt you'll like what you hear."

Lyra grinned.

The front entryway was broad like the rest of the house, and antique looking. On the wall by the door there were these ridiculous looking coat racks made of buck antlers and the floors were a dark wood which creaked like they'd been installed in the 1800s. The most striking feature of the room however, was at the end of the hall where a life-sized portrait depicted an ugly bearded man with a hideous felt eye patch.

Lyra could have sworn the man's one oily brown eye was trailing them as they walked. Dimms didn't seem to notice though, so Lyra made a face at it and continued along toward the kitchen. She'd deal with him later.

At last, they reached a door near the back of the house and Dimms turned to her. "Now, if they say you can't stay, then you're to go right upstairs with the other kids, do you hear me Black?"

"Fine."

"I'm serious Black, no going outside by yourself."

"Alright, alright, just open it already!"

Dimms gave her one last distrustful look then pushed open the door. Lyra eagerly followed him in.

Ms. Berning and Constable Riggs were still seated inside, across from each other at a long wooden table which filled the majority of the room. There was an unused wood-burning stove behind them and a pot of tea on the old cooker. The walls were covered in shelves and shelves of dishes.

The two adults were deep in conversation and did not notice right away when Constable Dimms and Lyra stepped into the room. Ms. Berning, a stern-looking woman with cropped gray hair and pointed chin was speaking disdainfully toward Riggs. "I just don't see," she said, "Why you had to go and bring that girl all the way here from Exeter. She's the most incorrigible girl I've ever met. Five families gave her back already and_ I_ don't want her here one bit."

Lyra came to an abrupt halt. Even Dimms rubbed at the back of his neck in surprise at exactly what they'd walked in on. As she watched him, his eyes grew wide and he looked at Lyra in confusion. "What's that?" he said.

Lyra looked to the side. She had not noticed right away that the two shelves nearest her were rattling. Of course as soon as she had, the shelves' rattling became several times more violent. Then suddenly it was too much. All the glass cups and pitchers that had been resting near her came clattering to the ground. Thousands of tiny glass shards spread out over the kitchen tiles in echoing crashes.

The commotion was shocking.

For a moment Lyra just stood there staring and the constables did the same. Ms. Berning seemed to be the only one entirely unsurprised by the failing of her kitchen shelves. In fact, she looked as though Lyra's being there amidst mountains of broken glass affirmed everything she'd ever surmised of the girl.

"Incorrigible," said Ms. Berning at last.

Lyra turned and left.

Her rucksack was still strapped to her back so she did not slow down or stop on her way out. She went back through the corridor to the entryway, where the portrait's eye remained firmly trained on her, and then through the heavy front doors to the road beyond.

Outside the clouds were moving faster over the sky, darkening the afternoon and threatening a storm. Lyra's heart thrust itself again and again against her ribcage and her thoughts were racing with questions like, _where would she go? How would she support herself?_ She even imagined she saw a pair of golden yellow eyes watching her from within the bush with the strange fruit. She paid it all no mind though, only started to run.

Lyra didn't know how long it took Ms. Berning and the constables to realize that she'd left for real. But while she ran, she imagined what it was they might say when they did:

"Where is that wretched girl, anyway?" Ms. Berning would ask in that nasty voice of hers.

Then Constable Riggs would scratch his head and say, "Ms. Berning, ma'am, she seems to've run away."

And Constable Dimms, looking positively staggered by the very idea of it would stutter out something like, "Run—run away?"

"Yep, flown the coup, escaped the henhouse, took off like a jet pack filled with rocket fuel."

"But why?" Dimms would surely ask.

And Lyra would've been happy to tell him. It was because she was sick and tired of being the unwanted casserole at Christmas time—passed around from plate to plate with no say whatsoever in where she'd end up. No, Lyra had had it with that life. From now on, where she went and when she went there would be up to Lyra and no one else. No more foster homes, no more adoptions, and no more stupid constables.

Maybe she'd go off and join the circus, she thought, still running furiously. Surely any ringmaster worth his salt would be able to find some use for her. And if it came to it, she could always start off cleaning animal cages and then work her way up to lion tamer. At the one circus Lyra had been to with the Wenhams, there had even been a bearded lady who'd seemed a decent enough sort. Maybe Lyra could become her apprentice. Or maybe one day she, Lyra could become the ringmaster.

Well that was one option anyway. The specifics didn't matter, really. Thousands of possibilities had been opened to her. She could do whatever she wanted and nobody would stop her. Why, she should have run away ages ago. This was the best decision she'd ever made! But then… then the sky opened up and it started to rain.

Never had an idea seemed so brilliant one moment and so terrible the next as when the first raindrop landed on Lyra's nose.

For the first time since leaving Ms. Berning's home, Lyra chanced a look behind her. She'd run much further than she'd thought and as the rain picked up, Lyra realized she could not even see the house anymore, nor any of the trees growing near it.

Lyra continued forward. Her pace slowed, but she refused to give up and walk. Perhaps that was her mistake though; because, not only was the road becoming slippery from the rain, it also began to slant upward.

Lyra's trousers were soaked before long and the short sleeves of her t-shirt were proving highly ineffective in keeping her warm. Her heavy breathing caused tiny clouds of heat to form amongst the raindrops and after a while she was so tired from running she began to see double. That was why she didn't notice right away the rock on the side of the road where she'd made her path.

It was the same size as the rock Lyra had thrown at Moira Darling's head. It was dug into the mud pretty well, but just enough of it was sticking out that as Lyra ran over it, she caught her toe and lost her balance. The road she had been running scaled a narrow hill and Lyra had not realized that she'd made it to the very top until she tumbled over the side and began crashing down.

It was a painful fall. The hill was covered in loose rocks and briars. Branches tore at her on her way down and the rain made it all the worse. She fell and fell and fell for so long that Lyra began to wonder if she would ever stop until at last she did.

"Oww."

Everything hurt. Lyra kept her eyes closed, nervous for the sight of her own blood. Her ankle felt like it was laying the wrong way and there was a ringing sound in her ear that made her limbs feel heavier than they had any right to be. She hoped Ms. Berning and those brainless constables would get there soon and find her.

Lyra reached a shivering wet hand into her trouser pocket and removed the brass pocket watch she had stuffed in there earlier. Water had seeped in under the face and the second hand had stopped ticking.

"Bloody thing," cursed Lyra and that was when she remembered how much she did not want to go back to the foster home.

She was muddy and injured and unhappier with her situation than she had ever felt before, but Lyra Black was not defeated. Her knees were both cut up and her ankle was throbbing too much to stand, but with a determination Lyra had not even realized she possessed, she crawled to her hands and knees and looked around.

During her fall, she had thought she spied an abandoned old farmhouse along the edge of the hill and her goal now was to find it and get out of this awful rain. There! There, she saw it, just over that ledge.

Once she was close enough Lyra realized the dinky old thing was barely more than a shack. The wooden walls were decayed and the roof creaked in the wind as if at any moment it might just give in. "You'll have to do though, won't you," said Lyra, and she pushed on the front door.

It didn't move.

She pushed again. The door still wouldn't budge.

Lyra shoved her entire body weight against it and banged on the wooden panes with her fists. Even that wasn't enough.

"Of all the rotten luck!" Lyra yelled, and then pulled herself up to hobble around the side of the shack. There was one small window around the back, but it was difficult to get to. The building was perched on the face of the hill so that the shack's only windowed wall was pointed down. Lyra really did not fancy the idea of losing her footing and falling down all over again—but she was also entirely fed up with the storm outside.

It took a long time, but somehow, slipping and stumbling all the way, Lyra managed to make it over to the window. She barely peeked inside the grimy, cracked glass before she threw her rucksack at it and smashed it all completely. Hoisting her injured ankle through the opening was difficult, but at last, all of her limbs and body parts made it into the shack—all except a large chunk of her hair that'd gotten caught on a rotted piece of wood just outside.

Thunder roared in the late afternoon and Lyra tugged at her hair, but it just wouldn't come loose.

She was soaking wet and so exhausted from her trek that she barely even thought about what she was doing then. Lyra removed the largest platelet of glass left on the window and clutched it in her fist. Then she hacked at the long strands of her hair until some finally came free. Minutes passed while she sawed away, but Lyra made sure to do a thorough job and by the time she was finished her head was not only free but felt lighter than it had in years.

The feeling pleased her so much after everything she'd gone through that day that she took glass to the rest of her hair. Soon thick black clumps of it covered the debris already littering the shack floor and perhaps it was just a long day making her silly, but the sight of it all made her laugh so hard she nearly dissolved into tears. Chuckling still, she made her way to the wall furthest from the window and slid down onto her bum. She rested her head against the grime-covered wall and closed her eyes.

It wasn't all that warm in the shack with her wet clothes—and the smell of decay was nearly overwhelming. But that was all surprisingly easy to ignore as Lyra drifted off to sleep. She would've rather not dreamed that night at all, but nothing else was going her way, so why should this?

Swirls of colors melted into dreams filled with faces she had not seen in years. The Derwents. The Ashkelons. The Nevins. The Wenhams. The Hornes. But who was it before them? Dark hair like Lyra's. Dark hooded eyes. Dark clothing. Dark smile.

Would she ever know? She wanted to. The curiosity over it burned in Lyra's stomach. Burned so much that it woke her and for a while Lyra just lay there clutching at her abdomen. And then she realized that wasn't what was bothering her stomach at all—she was hungry.

Lyra groaned and sat up. Sunlight was streaming into the shack through the broken window in such a way that it could only be morning. Her clothing was still damp and she felt decidedly light headed—though perhaps that was just all her missing hair.

Lyra looked down at the matted pieces of it strewn all over the floor and laughed all over again. If only Ms. Berning could see her now… the woman's head would likely explode from Lyra's newfound level of incorrigibleness. And nobody would ever try to adopt Lyra now—they'd take one look at her and say, "No thank you, haven't you got any ordinary looking ones?"

The more she thought of it, the more she smirked. Really, this should have occurred to her ages ago. As soon as the constables picked her up from the Wenhams, she should have taken shears to her hair right then and there. And later on she should have slammed the door in Kenneth Horne's stupid, smiling face.

Lyra's stomach gave a loud rumble and her smirk faded.

The nice thing about foster homes is: they generally ensure you're given plenty of food—so long as you don't run off and enrage the caretakers. With that depressing thought, Lyra crawled over to her rucksack and opened it up. Of course there wasn't any food in there, why would there be? But her stomach insisted she look anyway and so she pulled her few belonging out onto the floor and searched.

Much to her surprise she actually found something though. Well she wasn't completely sure it was edible, but it had smelled sweet when she found it. It was better than nothing anyway. Lyra seized the radish-like fruit from Ms. Berning's garden and sat back in her spot by the door. She stared across the shack to the window and was surprised to notice that without the rain she could make out the bottom of the hill she'd been climbing.

It was the Channel! She could have fallen right down the side of the hill and into the sea! She would have drowned! Running away was turning out to be far more dangerous than she had thought—but that didn't mean she was going back.

No, she'd managed to find shelter for the night and somehow she hadn't yet been found herself. All things considered, and much despite her negativity the night before, she wasn't doing too badly. She was still alive anyway and the sunlight certainly helped things. Lyra lifted the fruit to her lips and took a bite.

Several things happened all at once.

An owl, in broad daylight, landed on the broken window ledge and gazed at Lyra with a pair of unblinking, golden yellow eyes. There was a knock at the door right beside Lyra, and from Lyra's spot there, she could just tell it came from somebody quite tall. And finally, Lyra tasted the radish-fruit for the first time and realized what a horrible idea it had been to sample the unknown bit of produce. It was absolutely disgusting—sourer than eight lemons covered in spoiled milk.

Lyra spit it out so hard that the bit of chewed fruit went flying up rather than down. And it just so happened that at that exact moment, the door to the shack cracked open to reveal an old man who was precisely the right height for the wad of saliva covered radish-fruit to hit him directly in the eye.

The hit was all the more impressive considering the man was even wearing glasses, albeit, a pair shaped like half-moons that slid down his nose a bit.

"Ah," he said, wiping at his eye with the tip of his long white beard, "A dirigible plum. A most intriguing choice in breakfast projectiles."

"What?" said Lyra, far too shocked to come up with anything more eloquent.

"I imagine it was quite sour, wasn't it? Yes, dirigible plums can taste very sweet if you look after them while they are still small, but left untended, they will grow to be as large as a grapefruit and doubly sour. I think sometimes it is the same with people, wouldn't you agree?"

"Erm—who are you?"

The man released his beard and surveyed her with a pair of bright blue eyes. "My name is Albus Dumbledore," he said serenely, "And I believe the more important question is, do you know the date?"

"August the thirty-first?"

"The first of September actually, and I am afraid to say, we are running rather behind schedule."

"Behi—did Ms. Berning send you?" Lyra wanted to know.

"I did speak with Ms. Berning, yes. She was the one who informed me you were out for the morning. In fact, she seemed quite convinced you had run away."

"That's because I did," said Lyra crossing her arms, "And I'm not going back there—you can tell her I said so."

"Well then, we are in luck, as I am not here to bring you back to Ms. Berning's, charming woman though she may be. No, I am here to bring you to a boarding school called Hogwarts."

Lyra stiffened. "You're—you're a wizard!" she accused and scooted herself away from the man. She should have known! The waistcoat the man was wearing was just the most jarring shade of purple and Phillip Nevin had always said you could tell a wizard by his clothes—they didn't have a clue how to dress decently.

"To—my dear, there is no need to be afraid. I assure you, I mean you no harm. I am only here to bring you to the train for school. It will be leaving London's Kings Cross Station in—," he paused and removed a pocket watch the likes of which Lyra had never seen from his coat pocket, "Less than half an hour," he concluded.

"Well I won't be going," said Lyra.

The man, Dumbledore, did not seem perturbed by her refusal—but neither did he seem convinced. "Miss Black, you are a witch of great potential. With proper training, you will be able to do all sorts of wondrous things. Allow me to demonstrate."

Dumbledore reached into the breast pocket of his coat and removed none other than a real wizard's wand from within. It was nearly as long as Lyra's arm and had peculiar designs, almost like berries carved into the wood. It was the first wand Lyra had ever seen and so as soon as he started waving it, Lyra—well-aware of the dangers of wizardry—backed as far away from Dumbledore as possible.

Just as she feared, the spells Dumbledore weaved arched through the air heading straight for Lyra. There was a yellow one, a blue one, and a fishy technicolor one all sent in rapid succession. The first one dried her clothes, the second one mended them, and the third caused all of her injuries to stitch themselves back up leaving hardly a scar on her.

Lyra was left utterly bewildered. She didn't know what game this wizard was playing at, but she did know her ankle felt much better. She would be able to continue running away far more easily now than she would have before. The only problem was, Dumbledore seemed set on dragging her off to Hogwarts.

"What if I don't want to go to Hogwarts?" she tried.

"My dear, nobody is going to force you to go against your wishes."

Lyra did not believe him for one second. She stood up and was shocked at how good, how rejuvenated her entire body felt. It was as if she'd just woken from a sleep in the most comfortable feather mattress. Dumbledore was powerful alright. He would have no trouble whatsoever in bringing her to Hogwarts no matter what she wanted. And that being the case, there was no way she was about to actually thank him for his efforts in healing her.

Instead she said, "I think there's been some kind of mistake."

"Oh?"

"Yes, you see, I'm not a witch."

He chuckled, "How can you be so sure?"

"I just know, alright. Hogwarts will have to do without me I'm afraid. Not that it wasn't just fantastic to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore, but I'd better be off…"

"There was no mistake, my dear," said Dumbledore smiling as though he saw humor which Lyra could not yet understand, "You are most assuredly a witch."

"I don't think—."

"Your name is on the letter," said Dumbledore, "Your name would not be on the letter if you were not a witch. Indeed we had difficulty finding you—."

At this, the owl who'd landed earlier on the windowsill gave a squawk of protest. Lyra had almost forgotten he was there.

"But alas, we've found you now and here," he said, reaching into yet another pocket of his coat, "Is your letter."

"What letter?" said Lyra, taking the heavy parchment envelope into her hands, "What is this?"

"Your acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Lyra looked at it. "Who's Bernicia?" she asked, reading the name on the front.

"Ah, my mistake," he replied easily and retook the letter. He stuffed it into one side of his coat and removed another letter from the opposite side, "_Here_ is your letter Miss Black. Properly addressed this time I should hope."

It read: _Miss Lyra Black, Shack on the Side of the Hill, Dover_.

Lyra nodded.

"As I mentioned before Miss Black, we are unfortunately running short on time. The Express train to Hogwarts will be leaving King's Cross very shortly and you will need to be aboard."

"And how exactly do you expect me to get to London in ten minutes?"

"An excellent question, if you will allow me?" He smiled and tapped his wand on the tip of Lyra's unopened letter. "_Portus_".

The shack disappeared.

* * *

A.N. Thank you for taking a chance on this story! If you haven't noticed by now, it is a fairly blatant Mary Sue type of story. I've always been a fan of that sort of thing and before I began writing, I started with this question: What would it look like if you combined _all_ of the typical elements of a Mary Sue into one character?

I decided the poor girl probably wouldn't cope all that well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: The Strange Way to Run**

It felt like something had latched onto Lyra behind her navel and was dragging her away. Albus Dumbledore and the shack were gone, replaced by streams of colors that didn't make any kind of sense. And Lyra was left clutching the parchment envelope in disbelief, unable to let go if she tried.

That wizard fool had done something to her! She'd known right away he was trouble, and now this! What was happening to her? It felt like she was moving, but where was she going? To London's Kings Cross Station? She'd never agreed to this! She wasn't going to Hogwarts, she wasn't!

Suddenly the world stopped whirring around her and she collapsed in a very small, very dark space. A candle lit up above her head at her arrival, as if the flame had been summoned by her very presence, a bad sign for sure. The floor she was pressed against was cold and smelled like citrus cleaning supplies and when she tried to get up, Lyra smacked her head on the underside of a porcelain white sink.

"Son of a—ow!"

She was in a bathroom of all places, and as soon as she realized it Lyra actually became quite glad that was the case. Her head had just barely stopped spinning from whatever Dumbledore had done to her, and her empty stomach churned. Lyra bent over the toilet and was quite sick.

"I absolutely hate that man," said Lyra and she wobbled to her feet.

She washed quickly, and then pushed open the bathroom door to investigate wherever she'd ended up. She had her suspicions though…

Sure enough, the corridor she found herself in outside the bathroom could be none other than the kind found on trains. It was narrow and windowed, and more crowded than a sports pub during the world cup (the Wenhams had been football fans).

A few people gave her strange looks as she squeezed by them, but nobody stopped her or demanded to know exactly what it was she thought she was doing there. Lyra just needed to find a door so she could get off this bloody train before it left the station.

She waited for a group of trunk-carrying teenagers to pass and then darted around the next group (four red-heads who appeared to be related) until she made it to the still-open door of the train. Then at the exact moment she tried to step out, the door flew shut in her face and the train whistled.

"Open!" yelled Lyra tossing her rucksack at the door, "Come on you stupid thing, open up, I need off!"

Of course it didn't budge. Some sort of magic, most likely, held it firmly closed. Lyra banged her fists against it, called the door any number of ugly names, and then resorted to kicking it until her toes were hurting.

"The doors won't open until we arrive in Hogsmeade," informed a voice from behind. Lyra turned to find the oldest of the red-headed family looking down at her through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a crisp set of black robes and wore a badge on his chest of the letter "P". "If you've forgotten something on the platform, your parents will just have to owl it to you once we've arrived at Hogwarts. Now I recommend you find a seat, I'm a prefect you see, and it is my job to help look after everyone on the train."

"You're a prefect?" repeated Lyra.

The boy stood even straighter than he had before and replied, "Yes I am, so if you need prefect services, than I'm the one you'll want to go to."

"Prefect services?"

"Yes, looking after students—which includes giving detentions and taking points at times—then there's patrols, and meetings with the headmaster bi-monthly, and of course we also have a special bathroom, but now you mention it, they allow Quidditch captains to use it as well and I hardly think—."

"Albus Dumbledore!" interjected Lyra.

"Pardon?"

"I need to find Albus Dumbledore," Lyra told him, "Do you know where he is?"

The prefect looked at her as though she were quite mad. "He's at the school of course, where else would the headmaster be?"

"Marvelous," said Lyra and pounded the floor as she left.

She'd been tricked. Or perhaps the right word was just _out-maneuvered_. She could hardly be blamed for it. The pestilent man was a fully grown wizard after all. He'd tracked her down and sent her off to this train and now there was nothing she, Lyra, could do about it. For some reason the man had decided that Lyra would attend this… no _his_ school and despite what he said, he was not giving Lyra a choice in the matter.

Well Lyra would just have to see about that. She'd run away once already and as soon as this train got to wherever it was going, she'd run for it again.

The corridors cleared as the train gained speed and after several laps up and down the length of it Lyra decided she might as well find a place to sit down since she was stuck there either way. She had spied an empty compartment near the back and so she slowly made her way there and sat down before anybody else had the same idea.

There were three trunks on the luggage racks in the compartment, Lyra noticed once she was seated inside. She couldn't imagine why anyone would leave their trunks unattended unless… she shuddered and scooted away from them. Most likely there was some sort of magic protecting them, just like the train doors. She was starting to really hate magic. And did these wizards really need to use it for absolutely everything? It was obscene, really. Lyra could hardly wait to get away.

The journey continued for a while without incident and Lyra watched the countryside change as they moved further and further from London. The grass was much greener out of the city, and the sky was much bluer, and the clouds much fluffier. Lyra watched these for a while, finding images in the clouds to entertain herself—like that one looked a bit like the Hornes' blubbery old cat. And up high she thought one looked rather like the back of Ms. Berning's head—or maybe it was a giant bogey. And there, that one looked like a flying car…

"And what do you think you're doing here?"

Lyra turned to find a pale, blonde haired boy and two massive boys behind him. The pale boy was regarding her with a sneer and the others wore a twin pair of threatening—though perhaps a bit dull—expressions.

"Sitting," said Lyra.

"Sitting?" repeated the boy.

"Yes, that's what it's called when you rest your bum on something."

"I'd watch that tone if I were you," he replied unpleasantly, "Or don't you know who I am?"

Lyra turned back toward the window and ignored him.

"I said, don't you know who I am!"

"No! I don't know who you are, now go away!"

"Well then, we'll just have to show you. Crabbe?"

One of the large boys crossed the compartment and moved to seize Lyra, but she was much too fast for him. She ducked out of his grasp and then struggled out of his way as he twisted around. Unfortunately, the other behemoth of a boy was ready for that and grabbed her easily in a headlock.

Lyra punched and squirmed trying to escape, jostling the boy hard enough to make the contents of his cloak pocket clank together. But it wasn't enough. The boy was big and strong and held on tight.

"Now throw him out in the corridor, Goyle," said the pale boy once Lyra stopped moving, "No wait! Wait…" he halted Goyle and smirked down at Lyra. "It's Draco Malfoy," he said with an air of great superiority, "And you'd do well to remember it."

And with that Lyra was tossed quite forcefully from the compartment. Malfoy threw her rucksack out after her and then Goyle closed the door. Before it was fully closed she heard Malfoy say, "Too bad Potter isn't around."

And Lyra cursed the lot of them.

For several minutes, Lyra just lay there fuming. She was growing quite tired of all these wizards tossing her about like last week's news clippings. As soon as this sodding train reached its station, Lyra told herself, still sprawled out on the corridor floor, she would go as far away from these infuriating people as her feet would carry her.

Her thoughts returned to the bearded lady and the smelly animal trainers at the circus. After a night to sleep on the idea of joining them she had decided that perhaps the circus shouldn't be her first choice. There were of course plenty of other options, Lyra felt confident. Surely something would occur to her once she was shot of all this magic.

For now she was trapped though and not entirely sure how she would pass the time. Her stomach growled once reminding Lyra that she was still hungry and not a minute later she heard a compartment door slide open at the very end of the train.

Loud footsteps approached and Lyra at last decided she ought to roll over and stop blocking the way. Her full pockets jingled as she wound herself around, but Lyra was too slow to clear the path before the voice of yet another uppity magician addressed her.

"Why is it, I wonder," said the voice—a girl's voice this time, Lyra noted, "That there is a muggleborn laying on the ground? And just outside Draco Malfoy's compartment no less."

Lyra looked up to see a girl around her own age appraising her with a pair of granite blue eyes. She was fair skinned and fair haired, and fairly tall as far as Lyra could tell from her spot on the floor. She was also not alone.

Altogether there were four of them, dressed in black robes just like the prefect Lyra had seen earlier, though without the "P". They were standing together somewhat awkwardly—enough to make Lyra think this group had only just met one another.

The fair girl had obviously been decided the leader and she stood just a little bit ahead of the others. "I've asked you a question, you know," she said snootily, "The polite thing to do would be to answer."

Lyra pushed herself up and longingly imagined what the world would have been like if only she had been born deaf.

The others all watched her progress, "Well aren't you going to answer her?" asked a brown haired boy with a narrow, freckly face.

"Aren't you?" repeated the other boy in the group. This one was tall and thick, but not half as thick as the one who'd just thrown Lyra out to the corridor.

"I wasn't planning on it, no," said Lyra, "Quite frankly, I don't know who any of you think you are," she continued, motioning back to that Malfoy boy's compartment, "But I've got other things to do, so if you'll excuse me…"

The girl out front took out her wand and pointed it right at Lyra's face. Lyra thought she appeared far, far more threatening with it out and clutched in her left hand than Draco Malfoy's two bullying friends had ever seemed.

Lyra watched her warily.

"You're quite right of course," said the girl, "It was terribly rude of me not to introduce myself. Now let's see. That's Timothy Credo," she said, carelessly pointing her wand toward the freckly boy, "And his friend Andros Warrington. This is Felicity Thickenesse, and _I_ am Veronica Sinclair."

"Charmed," said Lyra and she turned to leave.

"Now, now, I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Sinclair. Her three friends chuckled encouragingly.

Lyra thought again that she might just envy deaf people and walked on.

"_Petrificus Totalus."_

Lyra's feet snapped together with a soft thud and Lyra tumbled forward. The ground flew up toward her face, but thankfully, whatever the spell was (and Lyra could hear Sinclair's friends congratulating her on it), when her head hit the floor it didn't actually hurt. That didn't mean it wasn't uncomfortable though. In fact, every blasted little smidgen of her body was stuck together like a statue and try as she might, Lyra couldn't move any of it. She couldn't even speak! Yes, Phillip Nevin had known exactly what he was talking about. Lyra thought she might just hate magic as much as he had.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to turn your back on an armed opponent?" taunted Sinclair as she strode over to tap Lyra's leg with her toe. Lyra would have liked very much for the witch's ugly blonde head to explode into a thousand tiny pieces. "Hm, I suppose not. Looks like you've learned your first lesson and we're not even to Hogwarts yet."

There was more chuckling from Sinclair's hollow-headed followers.

"Now for your second lesson," she began, but she never had a chance to finish. For at that moment, Lyra felt the effects of that insufferable spell wear off. She wasted no time in flipping herself over and kicking Veronica stupid Sinclair right in the knee.

Lyra sprung to her feet as Sinclair went down and then she tore off down the corridor toward the next train car. Sinclair's three friends were all so shocked by the turn of events that Lyra had just about reached it by the time Timothy Credo got around to yelling, "Oi, you get back here! You can't just do that!"

The next car was not nearly so empty as the one at the back of the train. Lyra had to duck around some boisterous teenagers and then squeeze through a group of girls until she made it to the car after that. And then, racing around the few individuals in that car's corridor, Lyra made it to the opposite side just as a pair of red-haired twin boys were leaving a compartment.

Lyra knocked into both of them as she rushed between the pair to sit down.

"Where's the fire?" said the twin on the right.

"Just shut the door, would you!" hissed Lyra.

This unfortunately only seemed to slow them down, "Would you listen to that, Fred," said the twin on the left, "I don't think I've ever been treated with such disrespect. And from an ickle first year at that!"

Lyra could hear the pounding footsteps of Sinclair and the others as they drew closer.

"Never in my life, George," agreed his twin, "You know what I say, brother mine? We ought to teach this chap some manners, oughtn't we?"

"But where to begin?"

"Just shut the door!" whispered Lyra more urgently than before.

"No, I don't think I—."

"Shut it Fred!" snapped the voice of a girl Lyra had not even noticed sitting there in the compartment. She had bright red hair exactly the same shade as the twins and the sort of exasperated expression people reserved only for their siblings, "And go away, will you!"

"Fine, your majesty," remarked the twin by the door, "We'd hate to offend Our Lady, Princess Ginny."

"But don't come crying to us if he's rude to you," added the other.

"Kids nowadays," they muttered to themselves, shaking their heads, "No respect!"

With that the door fell finally, blessedly closed. Lyra saw Sinclair's group run by less than a second later. She exhaled in relief.

The compartment was silent after that except for the sounds of the other girl scribbling away in some sort of notebook—or diary, perhaps.

Truthfully Lyra had expected the girl to bombard her with all sorts of obnoxious questions once they were alone. Lyra had even fixed her eyes on a point outside the window fully prepared to ignore such inquiries. She was never going to see any of these people again after all—what reason did she have to be nice?

But the questions never came. For several minutes Lyra watched the sky outside and waited… waited… nothing! The girl just wrote and wrote. What was she even writing about anyway?

Lyra glanced over. She diverted her eyes when the girl flipped a page and then she looked again.

The girl was writing very quickly and very sloppily with hair falling into her face and lots of smeared ink on the sides of her hands. Lyra stared hard then, trying to make out words. She saw things like:

"The twins are such tossers."

Then, "Don't know where Ron is. Clearly he's going to ignore me after all."

And, "I just hope I'm sorted into Gryffindor."

Lyra was so absorbed in reading the upside down words she didn't notice when the girl paused her writing to look up at Lyra.

"Can I help you with something?" she said, scowling across at her.

Lyra shifted, "No, just—er—nice… quill?"

The thin feather quill was singularly unique as far as Lyra could tell. It was perhaps a bit distressed looking and stringy little tufts were missing here and there, but Lyra hardly imagined her comment could be taken as an insult.

By the narrowing of her compartment-mate's eyes, it became quite obvious that it had been though.

"Well have out with it then," snapped Lyra, "I suppose you'll want to have me tossed out into the corridor, then? Or maybe you'll want to attack me with that fancy wand of yours," she said, pointing at the spot right by the girl's leg where it was resting.

"If you think you're funny, I'm here to inform you that you're not."

"Well there go all my dreams of joining the circus, how ever am I to survive?"

"The what?"

"Nothing."

The girl glared for a good long minute. Lyra obligingly glared back.

"You're a right foul git, did you know that?"

"I did actually. And you're a nattering pea brain so I won't bother to ask if you knew it."

The train ride dragged on even more slowly after that. Eventually the sun began to descend over the horizon and the first stars peaked out into the clear night. Lyra thought they resembled a lot of monstrous little insects.

She wished they would just get there already! They couldn't be far now, the express had been chugging steadily north for hours—soon they were bound to run out of land. Outside the landscape had changed to mountains and forests which did make Lyra a bit nervous as to where exactly she'd run to once she could. But after all the awful wizards and witches she'd met that day, Lyra was more than willing to risk whatever terrain she came across.

At last a garbled voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please ensure you are wearing the approved uniform robes but leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Lyra glanced down at her worn out t-shirt and trousers. Thanks to Dumbledore there weren't any holes, nor excessive amounts of dirt on them, but she was sure to stand out. The man hadn't even the decency to give her a uniform.

Lyra grabbed around in her rucksack for the letter he'd used to transport Lyra to London. Maybe it contained some sort of instructions…

Lyra scanned the heavy parchment for important information. "First year students will require…" it began and then went along to list all manner of magical paraphernalia which made Lyra frown in disgust. "And please be advised, first years are not allowed their own broomsticks."

"What a load of cow dung," spat Lyra, chucking the parchment away from her. Her compartment-mate gave her a funny look, but Lyra ignored it.

Really it was extremely fortunate that Lyra was not actually going to Hogwarts. She didn't have any of those things! Had Dumbledore simply forgotten about it all? Didn't he even know the contents of the letter he'd brought her?

"Senile old fool," she muttered to herself. And he was supposed to be the headmaster!

No, Phillip Nevin had been right. Wizards, witches, magic, none of it was worth knowing about. Still, she thought to herself as the train began to slow, that was hardly any reason to send her away. It's not as though she, Lyra, was out to become any sort of witch. She'd have to be mad!

Lyra filed off the train with everybody else and immediately began searching for her escape. They were all standing on some sort of platform and most of the kids were making their way over to a small parade of horseless carriages.

The youngest ones however, who all appeared to be around Lyra's age, were huddled about the largest, hairiest man Lyra had ever seen. He held a torch high above everyone's head and called out, "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

Lyra spotted Sinclair's group among the first years and quickly made to follow the older kids off the platform.

"But you there, hey!" called an authoritative voice to Lyra's left, "Why aren't you dressed in your uniform? Didn't you hear the announcement?"

It was the red haired prefect from earlier and he looked so important standing there amongst a sea of young witches and wizards, Lyra was sure he'd just burst.

"I—er—left it in my rucksack," she told him, and patted the bag as if to prove it.

"Well you ought to have put it on. Prefects can deduct house points, you know, for being out of uniform."

"I'll be sure to remember that. Thanks ever so much Mr. Prefect."

"Not at all, not at all," he replied pompously, "A prefect's work is never complete. Now, let's get you back with the other first years.

"No really, I'll be just f—."

"You'll be taking the boats over the Black Lake with Hagrid," continued the prefect, and he latched onto Lyra's arm to lead her, "No, no, don't drag your feet. This is the way you want to go, I assure you. Really, there's no finer view of the castle than from the middle of the lake. And what a treat it is that it's not even raining."

"Spectacular."

Lyra ended up walking with the rest of the eleven year olds (and the giant who was apparently named Hagrid) off the opposite side of the platform and toward the forest nearby. Lyra made sure to steer clear of Sinclair and ended up bumping into her red-haired compartment-mate.

"Watch it, will you," growled the girl. She was still, amazingly, scribbling away in her diary as she walked.

Lyra elbowed her in the side and then moved away from her before she could retaliate.

The crowd of first years all passed under a stone archway at the edge of the forest (Hagrid had to duck) and then continued onto a steep, narrow path. It was very dark on either side of them and the first years were all distracted with trying to remain on their feet. It proved far easier than Lyra would have expected to sneak off into the thick trees.

She drifted to the very back of the cue, to the point where she could hardly see Hagrid's light and then slipped off through an opening in the trees and into the forest.

She started off at a run, but the pitched dark surroundings and the heavy concentration of tree roots kept causing her to trip and fall. After the third time she scraped her knee, Lyra decided she'd better continue at a more sedate pace—particularly as she was travelling downhill.

By herself, the woods were perhaps a bit spookier than Lyra had anticipated. The dense canopy blocked any hope of light from the stars and Lyra had walked through more spider webs than she cared to count. Once or twice she wondered if she oughtn't just return to the path and run away some other time—maybe during a nice sunny afternoon.

Soon enough she realized that it was much too late for that though. She paused for breath by a tree that was wider than Lyra was tall and when she glanced behind her, curious to see the light from Hagrid and the other first years, all Lyra could see was trees. It was as though the whole world were nothing but trees.

Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea.

It hardly mattered now of course. Lyra passed through the woods for several minutes and did her best not to think about what might be hiding there. But in the darkness her imagination proved more active than she had ever given it credit for. She imagined the soft scuttling sound on the forest floor was the prowling footsteps of a hungry wolf. A twig breaking was a ferocious bear as tall as a house. A weird murmuring sound was a lion that'd come to live in the forest after escaping the circus. Stupid circus.

At last the trees began to spread out, growing further and further apart. Moonlight slipped in through a few branches and Lyra hurried along until she reached the forest line. There she came to a halt and considered the wide body of water that stretched in front of her for over a kilometer.

On the other side stood a huge black castle atop a hill with lots of towers and turrets reaching up into the velvety night sky.

Lyra supposed it was sort of beautiful—if you were into that sort of thing of course, which Lyra most certainly was not.

But that was Hogwarts alright, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where Albus Dumbledore presided as headmaster and Phillip Nevin had never attended. Of course neither had any of the Wenhams, nor the Hornes. And the Ashkelons would likely have each suffered a heart-attack even hearing the bloody name. As for the Derwents, well Lyra hadn't a clue about them.

What she did know was she, Lyra would not be taking one step closer to the place.

She could see out in the center of the lake, a little flotilla of row boats, likely filled with all the Hogwarts first years. She wasn't with them now and she never would be. Lyra would be on her own now, far from Devon or Exeter, and hopefully far from Hogwarts. Lyra took several steps back.

Unfortunately, in all of her distraction with the castle, Lyra was not watching where she was going. Her foot snagged on a root and down she went.

It was hardly the first root Lyra had tripped on that evening so when Lyra fell, she quickly braced herself and prepared to hit the ground. It didn't come—at least not when Lyra was expecting it. Instead, when Lyra fell, her arms flailed about and she dropped and dropped down into an earthen pit.

After a moment of deep breathing, she opened her eyes. The stars flickered above her tauntingly, but they were further away than Lyra would have liked. Around her was a nothing but a round dirt wall doubly high as Lyra was tall. "Oh, bloody, awful, sodding, horrible luck," she cursed and then she groaned because her ankle was hurt all over again.

She tried and tried to climb back up out of the pit but it was impossible. There were no edges and nothing to grab onto wherever Lyra tried. The loose dirt slipped beneath her hands and when she gritted her teeth enough to try, she found there was nowhere for her feet to grab hold either. She was trapped.

Lyra collapsed back into the center of the pit and glared at the stars. The corner of her eye was stinging, likely from the loose dirt, and she was left marveling over all the piss-poor decisions she'd been making recently.

Maybe she shouldn't have terrorized the Hornes and poisoned their cat. And maybe she should have just stayed with Ms. Berning no matter how awful she was. Better yet, she shouldn't have taken the blasted letter from Dumbledore.

No, she realized, and she sat up. Taking the letter had not been her fault. The abominable old wizard had tricked her into coming here.

"Dumbledore, this is all your fault!" she yelled and heard her voice echo satisfyingly off the nearby water.

"I hate you and I hope I never, ever see you again!"

She ranted for several minutes, and surprisingly, this made her feel a little bit better. "And you're the worst wizard ever born, and I hope your school gets closed down, and I hope you poke yourself in the eye with your stupid wand, and… and…"

Lyra trailed off and moved to the side of the pit that was closest to the lake. She'd heard something—a noise coming from the forest. She stood one-footed on top of her rucksack to see better, but it didn't really help. She could just barely make out the trunks of the trees at the forests' edge, but it was still too dark to see anything else.

"Hello?" she called, and was glad to hear that her voice didn't waver.

There was no answer, but the rustling sound in the forest grew louder—closer.

"Is… is somebody there?" There was more wavering that time, but Lyra thought she could have managed far worse.

"Dumbledore," she tried hopefully, "I—is that you?"

The rustling sound had dissolved into footsteps and Lyra felt her chest constrict. Surely Dumbledore didn't walk like that, did he?

Lyra held her breath and waited, waited for whatever it was that likely wanted to eat her for supper. The stars still twinkled above her maddeningly, and Lyra thought to herself that she really did not want to die. And resigned to that, she just hoped it wasn't painful.

At last a voice, male and commanding rent the quiet night.

"You should not be here," said the voice.

The broken pocket watch which Lyra had not even realized she was holding slipped out of her hand and hit the ground with a soft thud.

With trembling knees, Lyra bent to pick it back up.

"I r-really don't want to be."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Strange Sorts**

From where Lyra stood, the night seemed darker than ever.

Her legs were trembling and her back was pressed against the dirt wall of a large pit. And the worst part of it was the waiting. She was stuck there, waiting for whatever horrible breed of monster the forest had in store for her that evening. It was all the more frightening because the monsters were able to speak.

More footsteps crunching through the grass grew louder, closer. Lyra's arms and legs were gooseflesh and her stomach was rolling like she had just been transported by one of Dumbledore's asinine letters. So this was what it was like to really be afraid. Lyra had never thought it would be this awful.

The unwelcome sound of footsteps stopped suddenly and the night was quiet again but for a new equally unwelcome sound—breathing. There was more than one.

The thought of looking up was almost too terrifying to consider. But the longer Lyra stood there waiting for her fate, the calmer she became. Her breathing began to even out and at last she decided she should at least know what it was that was going to kill her before she died.

Lyra opened her eyes and lifted her face. What she saw above her made her gasp and drop the stupid, broken pocket watch all over again. The creatures that surrounded her pit were the most hideous, most monstrous things that Lyra could possibly conceive of.

They stood tall, higher even than a double-decker bus and with four enormous legs each. They had hooves and tails like horses, but their upper bodies were like exceptionally muscular humans. Strapped to each of their backs were arrows and bows that could each have been the size of Lyra herself.

Their eyes were all trained on her, glittering in the faint starlight as if they were there waiting for her to say something or _do_ something. Lyra shook her head. No, most likely there were just deciding the best way to cook her up before eating her.

"I—I don't taste very good," she stammered. Lyra didn't think she sounded all that convincing, but faced with these terrible beasts, it was the best she could do.

"No, I imagine you don't," replied one with an awful chestnut colored body, "Bane, what do you make of it?"

"As I said already, it shouldn't be here," replied the one called Bane. And then he looked up into the night sky.

All the others, and there were many, each with hideous, mutant, half-horse bodies of varying shades, all turned their heads towards the sky as well. It was as if they were taking cues from Bane. Lyra noted that he was the largest of the lot, and certainly the burliest. He'd have to be the leader then, she surmised.

There was only more breathing for several minutes and Lyra began to shift uncomfortably. Her ankle was hurting her and she would have really liked to be a great deal further away from these awful beasts. Even locked up in Hogwarts Castle would have been better than stuck out in the forest with the monsters.

"Are—are you quite finished with me then?" asked Lyra when the quiet began to drag.

"Because if you are, you really needn't bother about getting me out of this pit. I'm sure I'll manage on my own, and you lot can just be on your way then."

"Hello?"

"Can you even hear me?"

Nobody answered her. The creatures all just stared eerily up toward the sky saying nothing to Lyra nor even each other.

Lyra shuddered and picked up her watch once again. She carelessly shoved the thing in her trouser pocket where it clanged noisily with the two golden coins she'd stuffed there earlier.

There must have been something about the clanging though, for this at last brought the creatures' attention back down to her. Unfortunately, none of them looked very pleased about it.

"The twin star in the lute is unnaturally bright," said Bane.

"The twin star is a thief," said the one with the chestnut body.

"It isn't right," piped in another.

"It's unnatural," said another.

"Dangerous."

"A plague upon us all."

"Shouldn't be here."

"Th—that's enough!" shouted Lyra, completely bewildered by the creatures, "I—I'm not a thief!"

"Lies!" spat the herd and they all stamped their hooves and pounded their chests.

Lyra threw up her arms. "Alright fine!" she called out, hoping to just make them quiet, "S—sometimes I'm a thief, alright?" She thrust her hand into her pocket and removed the two coins she'd taken from that fat boy Goyle's robes, "Here, take them. I don't even know what they are."

Lyra tossed the gold coins as hard as she could out of the pit. They glinted in the faint light from the moon for just a second before the creatures went even madder than before. "Traitorous fiend!"

"Trying to give us wizard's gold, how dare it!"

"Sheer impudence!"

"Shouldn't be here!"

"Stop!" cried Lyra, pressing her hands to her ears, "Stop it right now! I—I just want to be out of this pit!"

The creatures all quieted and glared at Lyra from their superior positions.

"You shouldn't be here," said Bane, "The twin star is too bright."

"Yes, you've mentioned that before," said Lyra, mustering to her voice far more courage than she felt. "But I hardly see what that has to do with me. And I'll leave you all to your pit and your forest as soon as I can."

"What is your name?" asked a dark colored horse-man that Lyra could hardly see in the night.

"Lyra Black."

"You must understand Lyra Black, we cannot allow you to leave."

"What?"

"You cannot leave this pit, Lyra Black," said Bane, "We centaurs guard all denizens of the Forbidden Forest. But you will bring about their destruction."

"But I—I—what are you even saying?" demanded Lyra, starting to feel very angry at these creatures, "I don't understand."

"You shouldn't be here, Lyra Black," said Bane yet again, "It isn't right."

Lyra thought he must be purposefully trying to infuriate her.

"You've said that already!" yelled Lyra, well and truly angry now, "Just let me out of this pit and I'll leave alright?"

Bane looked down at her almost pityingly—as if those wretched dark eyes of his could even fathom pity. He reached a muscled arm behind his back to retrieve his bow and a long, pointed arrow.

"Wait, what are you doing?" cried Lyra, alarmed now, "Stop! Help! Dumbledore… someone… help!"

Bane knocked his arrow and aimed it down, straight for Lyra's heart. The other creatures solemnly looked on.

"Please, you don't want to do this. There's been some kind of mistake! I'm not even a witch, I'm a muggle, I swear it!"

Bane tightened the bow and pulled its string. His gaze bore right into Lyra and Lyra watched, almost fascinated as the creature moved to release. And then… a pale body stepped before Bane and his arrow and held up its arm. Lyra did not have the chance to feel relief though, for it was yet another horse-man and he was just as towering and awful as the rest.

"Bane, it's still a foal," said the newcomer, "This isn't our way."

"The stars led us here," said Bane, "Foretold a presence in our trap this very night, and then placed the very thing that would threaten our way of life before us. It is only one foal, Firenze."

"It is still an innocent life," insisted the pale one, Firenze.

"Innocent?" scoffed Bane, "It's a thief and a liar already, it will only grow worse. Even now in the face of its own demise, this… this human dares lie to us. Listen to it, insisting it's a muggle when I can feel the dark magic radiating off it like a decaying star."

"There's a curse upon her, that is all," said Firenze, "The girl is still innocent."

"Even if that were the case," said Bane, "It won't be so forever. The stars tell of this unnaturalness. We must end it now once and for all. For the greater good."

Lyra heard a slight rustling in the woods and suddenly all the maned heads above her turned toward the forest.

"Well now there is a phrase I had not thought I should ever hear from a centaur," said a soft, entirely too relaxed voice from somewhere in the trees.

"Dumbledore is that you?" cried Lyra, hardly daring to believe it. True she still hated him, perhaps now more than ever (there was hardly any danger running afoul a herd of centaurs down in Dover after all), but Lyra did not think she had ever felt so glad to hear someone's voice as she did just then.

"Professor Dumbledore if you will, Miss Black," he replied, "Or Headmaster, if you prefer."

"Just get me out of here before they kill me!"

"Not to worry, my dear. I shall have you out in a jiffy."

"Headmaster, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Bane, tossing his arrow on the ground and turning away from Lyra. Lyra sighed in relief.

"I am simply here to retrieve one of my students who became lost on the way to the castle. Now, perhaps you will do me the courtesy of answering the same question."

"We the centaurs," said Bane, motioning to the rest of his herd, "Are simply following the fate laid out for us by the stars. And in doing so, protecting the Forbidden Forest, our home."

"Yes, your home which I, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, so graciously allow you to occupy. What's more, I allow you to occupy it under certain conditions, namely that you do not attempt to murder the students of Hogwarts. You all agreed that these conditions were quite reasonable and I was given to understand that killing school children was averse to your ways nonetheless."

There was some shuffling amongst the centaurs and Lyra saw several dark heads lower in shame. Lyra noted that the palomino, Firenze was not one of them. Of course neither was Bane.

"But perhaps I was mistaken," Dumbledore continued, "Which I freely admit, does happen every couple decades or so. Maybe the Forbidden Forest would be better off without centaurs."

Lyra wondered if he really could do it—if one wizard could really take on this terrible herd. Dumbledore was certainly spry for his age, which Lyra imagined was quite ancient, but he couldn't possibly deal with all the horse-creatures himself, could he?

"You've made your point, Dumbledore," said the dark one and Lyra realized that the creatures certainly seemed convinced he could handle them.

"If this foal is not destroyed," said Bane, subdued but not quite defeated, "Then it will be the entire Forbidden Forest destroyed instead. One life to save thousands. How would you choose esteemed Headmaster?"

"Therein lies the crux of the issue, doesn't it," said Dumbledore, his voice calm and almost sympathetic, "For no matter what fate the stars lead you to believe in, I cannot allow you to harm one of my students."

"On your head be it, then," said Bane and he cast Lyra one more solemn look before galloping off into the forest.

Lyra couldn't help but think that despite his words, Bane was certainly not inclined to let her go. And she somehow doubted that she'd seen the last of him.

More hoof beats retreated into the night and soon it was just Lyra in her pit looking up at Dumbledore. He was dressed in what Lyra was sure he considered a resplendent set of midnight blue robes. Lyra could very clearly see the shade of them, for they were also covered in hundreds of miniature white moons and stars that flashed playfully in the night. Even his hat was covered in stars and they all reflected off his eyes and glasses making them almost glitter through the surrounding darkness.

"I'm afraid the feast will be quite finished by the time we reach the castle," said Dumbledore, "Which is unfortunate because I had been looking forward to the lemon flavored treacle tart for some time now." He casually waved his wand causing Lyra and her rucksack to rise, rise to the surface of the pit.

Lyra could see the strings of leaves and branches surrounding the centaur's trap which had served to camouflage it so well before. She kicked the longest branch for good measure and then marched over to retrieve the gold coins she'd earlier thrown at those foul, _foul_ creatures.

"Ah, I see you've injured your ankle once again as well. Perhaps this time we should allow the nurse, Madam Pomfrey to attend to it. That is, after you return those galleons to their rightful owner of course."

Glaring at the headmaster, Lyra stuffed the coins in her pocket. She picked up her rucksack and then turned toward the forest from the direction it looked Dumbledore had come. So she would be going to the castle after all, thought Lyra, that didn't mean she would be happy about it.

In fact, Lyra intended to make sure _Professor_ Dumbledore knew exactly how unhappy she was. She stomped her feet as she walked through the first leaves of the forest's underbrush and she made sure to step hard on all the noisiest looking stems and twigs she could find.

"Alas, the most direct route to the castle lies the opposite way," said Dumbledore.

Lyra whipped around, "Maybe you hadn't noticed, _Professor_," said Lyra, "But there is a fat, sodding body of water there. Did you intend to swim across?"

"I had noticed it as a matter of fact," replied Dumbledore, chuckling even, of all the appalling things he could have done to her, "But seeing as I am a wizard, I had thought I would use magic to cross it."

"Brilliant. Just Brilliant."

Several minutes later, Lyra and Professor Dumbledore were both seated in a small wooden boat that was busily propelling itself toward the castle. It was a nice enough boat, Lyra supposed, but the seats were utterly ridiculous. Who used plush downy cushions on the seats of a row boat? Even one that had the audacity to row itself.

Lyra glared suspiciously at Dumbledore as they went. Surely he could have managed a perfectly normal row boat as easily as he conjured this monstrosity.

"I should warn you," said Dumbledore, long white beard whipping merrily in the wind, "Tolerant as I have been of your manners so far, particularly in light of the extenuating circumstances under which we have met, you will find at Hogwarts that the other professors will not be nearly so forgiving."

Lyra could think of nothing to say to that so she simply sat and glared and wished doom upon wizarding kind in general as the boat drew ever nearer to her magical education.

"Furthermore," he continued blithely, "At Hogwarts, thieving of any sort is not acceptable. Thus, any poor habits you may have picked up over the years had best be overcome within the walls of the school. I shall know if that is not the case."

Lyra jolted a little at that news. So the man had spies? But what sorts of spies? Magical spies? Some sort of bewitched coat hanger that sang thief whenever she passed? Lyra wouldn't put it past him.

"And lastly, though I am certain you will have been able to determine this for yourself. The Forbidden Forest is just as its name suggests, forbidden to all students. You should under no circumstances re-enter the forest without a teacher or respected member of the staff. Miss Black, I hope you realize that I am quite serious about this. Your very life could be at stake if you disregard these instructions."

Lyra gulped and turned away from the low hanging tips of a gated door to face Dumbledore. They were floating through what almost seemed like an underground cavern beneath the base of the school and Lyra had seen a set of steps going up from the water to a large door at the very end of the tunnel. "I understand Professor Dumbledore."

He smiled. "Excellent. Now, it would appear we have arrived. If you would, follow me up to—."

Professor Dumbledore cut off abruptly and for a moment Lyra stared around in confusion, trying to figure out why. But then she saw it, a brilliant white image of pure magic galloping toward them more gracefully than any centaur could even imagine. Once it was close enough Lyra realized it was a beautiful white doe, of sorts anyway. It was very unlike any animal Lyra had seen before. It was a bit too translucent, with soft intelligent eyes and curious mouth.

Of course then it had to go and open its mouth and the vision of splendor was completely ruined by the dry, unpleasant voice that emanated from it.

"I have Potter and Weasley in the dungeons. Due to their complete lack of respect for school property and the Statute of Secrecy itself I have decided it is high time they were expelled. Please advise."

The doe dissolved. Dumbledore chuckled. "Likely your future Head of House," he told her and then motioned for her to precede him into a wide chamber just inside the castle.

Here another white specter made Lyra jump back in alarm. This one was not an animal though, and its pearly white ectoplasm was not nearly as brilliant or wondrous as the doe. "You're a ghost!" she exclaimed and then turned to Dumbledore, "That's a ghost!"

It was in fact the specter of a man dressed in a doublet, ruff, and heavily plumed hat.

"A fine observation, Miss Black," replied Dumbledore, "Perhaps you will find yourself amongst the Ravenclaws after all."

"Headmaster, there you are!" said the ghost and he rushed forward, brushing the tip of Lyra's arm as he passed. It was very cold.

"Good evening Sir Nicholas. How are you?"

"Oh quite dreadful really. Dead as the day I was killed, but that's neither here nor there. The feast is finished and still there is no sign of Harry Potter. I am beginning to fear the worst, Headmaster. Hogwarts may soon find itself in possession of another ghost."

The ghost's translucent eyes were much too bright to be as sad and disturbed by the prospect as he really ought to be. Lyra shuddered.

"No need to fear, Sir Nicholas," said Dumbledore, "Professor Snape has just informed me that he has Harry and his friend Ronald Weasley down in the dungeons. In fact, I was just heading there now. But first, would you please escort Miss Black here to see Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing. Miss Black, we'll see about returning those galleons at a later time."

"Oh, right. Jolly good," said the ghost, sounding miserable, "Harry Potter was found alive, didn't you say, Headmaster?"

"I didn't actually, but I would assume so," said Dumbledore, "I am reasonably confident Professor Snape would have told me otherwise."

"So there's still a chance then," said Sir Nicholas, a bit more cheerful.

Lyra turned back toward the Headmaster, but was astounded to find he was nowhere in sight. "Where—but where did he go?" asked Lyra, looking over the entire chamber, "He was just here, wasn't he?"

"He can pop out fairly quickly," said Sir Nicholas, "I'm Sir Nicholas of Mimsy Porpington, by the way. Now who might you be?"

"Lyra Black," she told him.

"That's a funny name for a boy," mused the ghost and he floated through the chamber door on the opposite side.

Lyra opened the door to follow him. She was supposed to be going to the hospital wing after all, and the ghost was apparently supposed to lead her there. "I'm not a boy."

The ghost surveyed her critically and Lyra in turn surveyed the large hall where they'd ended up. The room was enormous and brightly lit with thousands of candles that floated high above the ground. There were four long tables, scattered with the occasional plate and teenager and dish of food. But all that was nothing to the ceiling—a ceiling that was perhaps the most wondrous thing she'd ever seen. It was in fact the night sky, complete with twinkling stars and waxing moon.

Sir Nicholas was talking again, going on about something which Lyra could not bring herself to listen to. Hadn't he seen the ceiling? Maybe he was just used to it, thought Lyra. She, Lyra would never get used to it though.

"And it's so difficult with today's styles to tell the difference, you see, between a boy and a girl," continued Sir Nicholas, "But your hair is much shorter than most girls'. In fact you look quite like a particular boy who attended here many years ago. Now what was his name… Tony? Timmy? T-?"

"Listen Nick, is that food for everybody?" asked Lyra, pointing to a plate full of pasties left over on the end of one of the four long tables. Her stomach growled.

"I should say not!" said Sir Nicholas, "Do you really imagine a ghost can even taste, let alone consume any of the feasts they give here at the school? It's truly inconsiderate of them, isn't it? The least they could do is let the food rot for a couple of weeks so we ghosts could sample it as well."

"But it is for all of the, you know, living folks around here, isn't it?"

"Well I suppose…" said the ghost.

"And no one would accuse me of stealing if I took some, would they?"

"No, most likel—."

"Great!" said Lyra and she practically skipped over to the pasties. She shoved two in her mouth and took two more with her.

Sir Nicholas eyed her with disdain. "And of course, the table manners of today's youth certainly leave something to be desired," said Nick, and they continued through the castle from there.

The castle proved to be more extensive than Lyra had first thought. Corridors just seemed like they would never end, and Lyra was left very disconcerted with the staircases. Did they always switch direction like that?

Lyra warily followed the ghost past moving portraits and suits of armor that turned their heads as she walked by—Dumbledore's spies most likely, thought Lyra with a grimace. The headmaster very well could find out if she didn't return the stupid gold to Goyle. But then, looking around the sprawling castle corridors, she thought it'd be fairly fortunate if she ever found the boy again in the first place.

"And this corner right here," said Nick, who apparently had decided himself some sort of tour guide, "Is where Amrose Swot first told his famous joke about the manticore and the unicorn who walked into an apothecary. And this is a painting of Phydilla Spore's great-grandnephew Budd Spore who funded the Hogwarts Greenhouse construction. Ah yes, hello there Budd."

Lyra quickly came to the conclusion that the ghost Dumbledore had saddled her with was in fact the most annoying being that ever existed.

"Of course this is Vindictus Viridian, author of the famous _Curses and Counter-Curses_, a guide on how to bewitch your friends and befuddle your enemies. He was a potioneer, if you would believe it, a dour fellow if there ever was one, but with a delightful singing voice."

Any fear Lyra might have had of ghosts completely disappeared as Nick nattered on about the dead witches and wizards who'd commissioned this statue or that tapestry.

At long last they reached the infirmary doors and Lyra hurried inside so she wouldn't have to listen to the history of Asclepius Stetho who "Went on to apprentice none other than Mungo Boham, and I hardly need to say anything for him now do I?"

The room was bright with the light of several torches burning from sconces all over the stone walls. There were tall peaked windows on one side, several cots, and shelves full of odd little glass bottles and vials. And striding up the path between the foot of the cots was a stern looking woman in a thick black gown and nursing apron.

"You're Black, then?" said the woman, "Lyra Black, is it?"

Lyra took note of her serious demeanor and was reminded of Ms. Berning. "Yes," she said shortly.

"I'm Madam Pomfrey, Hogwarts Matron. Professor Dumbledore informed me you were coming. Well what are you waiting for? Sit down then."

Lyra ungraciously flopped down on the closest bed—pointedly not sitting on the one the woman had indicated.

Madam Pomfrey removed a bottle from a shelf by the window and poured several mouthfuls of its contents into a cup. "Take off your shoe."

Lyra tossed it on the floor. The woman regarded Lyra severely and thrust the cup in her hand. "Drink this, it will reduce the swelling." She had apparently decided not to comment on Lyra's behavior.

"I don't want to drink it," Lyra told her.

"Drink it now or I will force the bottle down your throat." She held her wand out threateningly.

Lyra swallowed the contents and the woman nodded in satisfaction.

"Now, pull up your trousers so I can get a look at the cuts on your knees."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"No, they're just fine as they are."

"Now I've had just about enough of you. You can go be a brat on your own time, but here in my hospital wing, you will do as I say," said Madam Pomfrey.

"They're fine!" insisted Lyra.

"Let me see them or I will immobilize you and do it myself."

With as much resentfulness as Lyra could possibly convey in the action, Lyra pulled up her trousers and hoisted her legs up into the air. "There, have at them," she said.

There was a stuffy chuckle from the other side of the room, "Brazen little bugger, isn't she," it remarked.

Lyra looked away from Madam Pomfrey where she was twirling her wand over Lyra's outstretched legs and muttering to herself. "Who said that?" said Lyra. The voice sounded like it'd come from a spot over by the Hospital Wing's door, but there was nobody there, not even any portraits.

"It was I," said the voice.

"Are you invisible?" asked Lyra, doing her very best to ignore whatever Madam Pomfrey was doing to her.

"Only as invisible as a lighthouse on a clear night."

"Oh for heaven's sake, it's the hat, Black," said Madam Pomfrey.

Finally Lyra noticed the small wooden stool on the ground by the door. Atop the stool was resting a tattered and patched old wizard's hat.

"The hat was talking to me?"

A flap near the brim of the hat opened and it spoke again, "Of course, I'm not just any hat," he said brightly, "I am the Sorting Hat."

"The Sorting Hat?" repeated Lyra.

"Dumbledore had it sent up since you haven't yet been sorted," explained the matron.

"Sorted? What do you mean, sorted?"

"Now that is a question I should very much like to answer," said the hat, and then to Lyra's utter horror, the hat began to sing:

_"Now listen to this story of four scholars long ago_

_Who thought the average witch or wizard really ought to know_

_Just how to give their wand a wave and how to cast a spell._

_And so they built this school, I say, and here began to tell:_

_The proper way to cast a charm to make a feather fly,_

_And how you cannot conjure food, they taught the reasons why._

_There were lessons how to brew a potion and not to let it burn,_

_And all the rest of magic that the students here could learn._

_But the friendship of the scholars four did have some bumps in time._

_The four of them all disagreed which wizards were their kind._

_And so they split the school in four, each founder took their share_

_Of young wizards with specific traits that each was said to bear._

_For Gryffindor, born of wild moor, were those with courage in the heart._

_And to Ravenclaw, whom found no flaw in those whom we'd call smart._

_Then for Slytherin, the ones for him were those of great ambition._

_The loyal enough were for Hufflepuff, but she'd let anybody in._

_So step right up, I'll sort you now and try to make it quick._

_I'll send you to the Founder's House whom certainly would pick:_

_A lion of your character, or an eagle with your wit,_

_A snake that's cunning and waits to strike, or a badger to always fit." _

The hat fell silent when the song finished, looking highly content with itself. Madam Pomfrey finished up with Lyra's knees and ankle and then began bustling about, rearranging glass phials and folding bandages. Lyra crossed her arms, glaring at the hat.

"You intend to sort me, then?" she asked, "To one of these… Houses?"

The hat, decrepit old thing that it was, gave a stiff nod.

"You do this to everyone?"

Another nod.

"And I have to put you on?"

"That is generally how it works, yes," said the hat, and then nodded a third time, this time toward the Hospital Wing doors through which Dumbledore had just returned. "But in this case it may not be necessary. I already know you are a_ Gryffindor_!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Strange Arrangement **

Drip. Drip. Drip. That was the only sound in the infirmary after the hat made its decision. Lyra looked over to the matron and saw the woman was now completely unaware of her actions—which were strange. She was transferring blue liquid from a bottle on the shelf to a glass vial in her hand, and missing the vial completely.

Soupy blue fluid landed in drops one after the other on the otherwise pristine floor.

"Poppy, the draught," said Dumbledore calmly.

"Oh! Oh yes, my apologies Headmaster."

She waved her wand and the liquid evaporated.

"Now that seems to be in order," said Dumbledore walking towards Lyra in his detestable starlit robes. He gave the hat a funny look and then casually lifted it from the stool, "We need only see about getting you up to Gryffindor tower, Miss Black. Perhaps I'll summon one of the elves—."

"Headmaster, she didn't even put the hat on her head!" interrupted Madam Pomfrey, looking fretful, "Surely the girl can't be sorted without even trying the hat on her head. It's—it's unheard of!"

"Poppycock," said the hat from under Dumbledore's arms.

"Well I—Headmaster, you have to admit it's quite unorthodox," persisted the matron.

"Madam," grouched the hat, "You don't see me running about trying to heal sick students, do you? Perhaps you ought to leave the sorting to me."

"I'm sure Madam Pomfrey wasn't insinuating anything about your sorting capabilities," said Dumbledore diplomatically, "Only that this case seems to be rather unusual," he concluded with a wink in Lyra's direction.

Lyra scowled at him.

"But how does the hat even know where to put her if he hasn't seen inside her head?"

"Because I am the Sorting Hat!" he exclaimed, "And I've been at it for a thousand years."

"And for all we know you've been choosing at random all along. Some great trick by one of the founders to lead to House rivalries. I'll bet it was Gryffindor, wasn't it? Do you even know how many injuries I have to heal due to those foolish competitions?"

"The founders had no say in establishing Quidditch at the school Madam," retorted the hat, "That was Headmaster Roderick Windbourne."

"I don't very much care who established it, I would just like to know why they're still at it. It's dangerous!" exclaimed Madam Pomfrey, looking right at Lyra as she said it.

Apparently the matron had realized the futility in yelling at a hat and could not quite bring herself to yell at the headmaster. So instead she directed her vitriol at the only other person in the room, "And every time I fix them back up, they go and get themselves struck on the head with a bludger all over again. It's absurd!"

"Well don't yell at me," said Lyra, "It's hardly my fault if the students here go about injuring themselves playing dangerous sports. I've only just got here."

"And yet, here you are in the infirmary already," said Madam Pomfrey.

"Because some mad horse-men decided they wanted to murder me!" snapped Lyra.

"And why exactly did you feel you ought to leave the protection of the gamekeeper, Hagrid? Don't you have any sense, girl? Is that why the hat put you in Gryffindor? Because you don't have any sense?"

"It was certainly a contributing factor," muttered the hat.

"I think that will do," said Dumbledore in a very final sort of voice, "I believe, if neither of you have any objections of course, it is time Miss Black is taken to her new common room."

"Right," said Madam Pomfrey, "Right, of course. Do forgive me, Headmaster. I was only a bit wound up because Potter and Weasley were injured and have not yet been up to see me. Well Good Night then Headmaster, Miss Black… Hat."

"Who's Potter and Weasley anyway?" asked Lyra once they were standing outside the infirmary door, "They were the ones the doe was talking about weren't they? The ones you had to see to when you sent me off with that stupid ghost."

"Classmates of yours," said Dumbledore airily, leading the way toward a wide marble staircase.

"Housemates even," piped in the hat.

"And I would appreciate if you refrained from speaking so disparagingly of the Gryffindor House Ghost."

"House Ghost?" said Lyra, "Now the Houses have ghosts? What is a House exactly? I don't think I like them much."

Dumbledore explained to her about the four Houses of Hogwarts, how they lived together, had classes together, earned points for being good little witches and wizards and lost points for misbehaving. Lyra had a feeling she would not be the credit to her House that Dumbledore would have liked. This thought contented her a little bit as she trailed behind the headmaster up yet another set of stairs.

"Headmaster Dumbledore!" exclaimed a familiar voice from further up the stairs. "Headmaster Dumbledore, I need to speak to you!"

"Good evening Mr. Weasley, what can I do for you?"

The red haired prefect from the train gave Lyra a curious look as he rushed down the staircase and came to a heavy stop before the headmaster, "It's my sister, sir. She's just told me that a very curious thing happened in the first year girl's dorm."

"Oh?"

"A bed, sir. It appeared out of nowhere."

"A bed, you say? Are you sure?"

"Yes, Professor Dumbledore," said the prefect very earnestly, "It had pillows and curtains and everything."

"So you saw it then?" prompted Dumbledore. Lyra had the distinct impression that he was teasing the prefect.

He colored, "N-no sir, it was in the girl's dorm. And of course, I'm a prefect, but I still can't go to that side of the dormitory."

"Curious indeed," he said and winked at Lyra once again. Lyra attempted to cram as much loathing and revulsion as she could into her answering scowl.

"Well, perhaps it isn't entirely curious," continued the headmaster, "If you consider the present company."

The prefect glanced over at Lyra and then back to the headmaster. Apparently he was at a loss, but Lyra thought she had it figured out. The bed had appeared for Lyra who'd only just been sorted. Really, for a prefect, he seemed extremely dense.

"It's for me," she told him.

This only seemed to confuse him further. "For you?" he repeated stupidly, "But you're a boy."

She directed her scowl at the prefect now. "I am a girl," she told him flatly, making sure he realized the subsequent, "You idiot," was implied.

"Oh," he said simply, "Right."

"Allow me to perform the introductions," said Professor Dumbledore merrily, "Mr. Weasley, this is the newest Gryffindor first year, Lyra Black. I'm afraid she became rather lost during the sorting. Miss Black, this is your sixth year House Prefect Percy Weasley."

"Joy," muttered Lyra.

"Er, pleased to meet you," said Percy.

"Now," said Dumbledore, "It was very felicitous that you came upon us when you did, Mr. Weasley. You see, I require the services of a prefect such as yourself."

Percy preened.

"I need someone to lead Miss Black here up to the Gryffindor dormitory. Tell her the password, show her to her room, help her become acclimated. Can I count on you Mr. Weasley?"

"Of course, Headmaster. As I told Mister… that is to say _Miss_ Black here earlier, a prefect's job is never complete."

"A marvelous saying indeed," praised Dumbledore, "Now, I bid you both Good Night."

And then he was gone.

"How does he do that?" complained Lyra once she was left alone with Percy.

"The Headmaster is a very powerful wizard," Percy informed her, "He can do things which the ordinary witch or wizard can't even imagine."

"He's mad is what he is," decided Lyra.

Percy hmm'd in agreement.

The entrance to Gryffindor Tower turned out to be on the very top floor of the school. It was located behind the portrait of a fat lady in a frilly pink dress who asked them for the password.

"Waddlebird," said Percy.

"Indeed," said the lady and she swung open to reveal a warm cozy room complete with a roaring fire and squashy armchairs.

Percy led Lyra over to a set of doors on the end furthest from the fire. "The boys are on this side," he told her, indicating one of the doors, "The girls, and er, you are on that side."

"I am a girl," she told him grumpily.

"Yes of course," he replied awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, "Well, the first years are on the first landing so you should find it easily enough. Classes start in the morning so you'd better get a good night's sleep. I'll just—I'll leave you to it then, shall I?"

With that he turned and strode in through the door to the boy's dormitory leaving Lyra to her own devices. It occurred to her then, observing the small number of students still spread out among the many chairs before the fire, that now might be a good time for Lyra to sneak out again. Nobody was watching her after all. Lyra could run away now and nobody would know she was gone until tomorrow—so long as none of Dumbledore's spies throughout the school saw her leave.

But then she yawned and thought better of it. Best not to chance another run-in with the likes of those awful centaurs or anything else living about the school. Maybe tomorrow then…

Lyra climbed the few steps on the spiral staircase to the first year girl's dorm. The lights were still blazing within and there were four girls in there, each resting on their respective beds. They all looked up when Lyra came in. Even the little red haired girl who'd been Lyra's compartment-mate from the train looked up from that stupid diary of hers. She must be Percy's sister, Lyra realized, the one he'd mentioned on the staircase by the Hospital Wing.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Minding my own business," retorted Lyra, "Maybe you should try it."

"Boys aren't allowed to be in here," said the girl in the bed closest to her. She had blonde hair tied up in braids and bits of green goop dabbed about her face. Most likely it was meant to enhance her burgeoning complexion while she slept, but Lyra thought she looked like a boob.

Easily ignoring her, Lyra walked to the only remaining bed in the room between Percy's annoying sister and a brown haired girl who looked bizarrely familiar to Lyra.

"I said, boys aren't allowed in here!" repeated the girl, "This is the girl's dorm, I'll go get a prefect!"

"Please do," said Lyra, "Go and get a prefect. Go and get Professor Dumbledore even, see what I care." Lyra deposited her rucksack at the edge of the bed and then crawled onto it without any further deliberation.

The blonde girl with the braids turned to the one on her other side, "Cassidy, come with me to get a prefect."

"I don't know Mel, what if he's actually a girl?"

"What?"

"Well my cousin Sabrina told me the spiral staircase turns to a slide if a boy tries to get up it, so he can't be a boy, can he."

The two girls closest to the door discussed the possibility with much whispering and giggling. Lyra pulled the scarlet curtains around the bed closed and fell right to sleep. Tomorrow she would run away again and never see any of these exasperating magical folk again.

She slept soundly.

In the morning Lyra woke to an earful of excitable voices and girlish giggles. She heard her roommates discussing whether or not they ought to wake her, but eventually they decided against it and left the dormitory to go down to breakfast.

Lyra lay in her bed contemplating how she would run away this time. She'd have to avoid the forest for sure, but maybe there was a town nearby where she could catch a ride as far away from Hogwarts as anyone would take her. Or maybe she could make her way back to the railroad tracks and try to hop a slow-moving train back to London. But did any other trains take that route besides the Hogwarts Express?

A gentle tapping on the window pane distracted Lyra from her musings. Lyra rolled over and ignored it.

The tapping grew a little louder and a bit more insistent, but still Lyra ignored it. Then the tapping turned into a violent banging and Lyra couldn't ignore it any longer. She threw back the curtains of her bed and stormed over to the window. Outside on the narrow ledge stood that same owl from the shack in Dover, the one with the yellow eyes.

"What do you want?" she demanded, pushing open the window for the beast. It flew inside like a whirlwind of black feathers, nearly knocking over the water pitcher on the table and then landing right on Lyra's bed.

"Hey get off there!" yelled Lyra shooing him away, "Haven't you got anyone else to bother?"

The bird squawked in protest and flapped up to the top of her four poster bed. He gazed at her expectantly.

"What?" she snapped, "I haven't any juicy mice around here or whatever it is you eat. I might have some dirigible plum left over in my rucksack though, how's that sound?"

The creature just glared at her.

"I don't know what you want," she informed it, "I don't speak owl."

The owl flew down and this time perched itself on a bunch of black fabric at the foot of Lyra's bed. Lyra went over and picked up the fabric. It was a Hogwarts uniform complete with scarlet and gold trim in exactly Lyra's size.

Lyra looked around. The robe couldn't have belonged to the red-haired girl, she was too small. It looked too big for the two girls Mel and Cassidy as well. Perhaps it had belonged to the other girl, she was the one closest to Lyra's size, but that still didn't explain what it was doing on Lyra's bed.

"What is this?" said Lyra, picking it up, "Do you expect me to wear this? Is that what you're on about?"

The owl gave an affirmative hoot.

"Ugh, fine then."

Lyra changed quickly and then mucked around in her rucksack until she found her toothbrush. In the bathroom she finally examined her appearance. She looked horrible, she thought, but she didn't mind really. It was the haircut that was so off-putting. The strands were all short and uneven. And she was a little pale too—likely that had something to do with sleeping on the floor of a rickety old shack one night and then being nearly killed by wild centaurs the next.

When she came out the bathroom the owl was still there, watching her like one might a particularly interesting slug. But then, owls probably ate slugs, so Lyra hoped that wasn't it.

"Now what do you want?" said Lyra and for the first time she noticed there was a small bit of parchment tied to the owl's leg. "Is that supposed to be a letter for me?" she asked it.

The owl held up its leg in response and Lyra untied it.

When she unfolded it, the parchment grew to be at least eight times its original size. "Magic," cursed Lyra shaking her head. And then giving the offensive letter one final dark glare, Lyra read the first line.

It said, _"Gryffindor First Year Class Schedule"._

Lyra threw it down like it'd bit her. "I'm not going to class," said Lyra, "I'm running away again."

This sentiment apparently did not please the owl. It flung itself onto the floor, picked up the schedule and deposited it right on Lyra's head. And Lyra tossed it right back down again.

"What, are you going to force me to go, is that it?" scoffed Lyra, "You're just a bird. What are you going to do?"

The owl looked highly affronted by this. And in the face of the indignity, the owl propelled itself straight for Lyra and dug his sharp talons into her shoulder.

"Oi! What are you doing?" cried Lyra, trying to wrench the bird off of her, but it clung on tight and bit her ear pretty hard, "Ouch! Get off me, get off!"

Lyra whirled around and tried to free herself of the owl, but it did not relent—only bit harder and harder the more Lyra fought. Feathers went flying all over the room in the struggle and together they were a mix of squawks and colorful vocabulary.

"Alright fine!" shouted Lyra. "I'll go to my classes, satisfied?"

The owl released her and flew back up to the top of the bed. He looked quite pleased with himself.

"What do I have today anyway," wondered Lyra and she brushed some feathers off the schedule to read it again, "Charms, History of Magic, and Transfiguration."

Lyra grumbled and stuffed the schedule in her rucksack, "I can hardly wait."

She did manage to find her way back to the hall with the sky ceiling—she just kept taking staircases down and down. But by the time she got there all the food was gone and the students were loudly making their way to class.

Lyra spied the red-haired girl in the throng of students by the nearest staircase and she followed the girl back up to the same floor as the Hospital Wing. Here a small group of students with scarlet and gold trimmed robes headed in one direction while several with blue and bronze trim went the other.

They ended up in a classroom with an arched window overlooking the front of the school. There were rows of benches on either side and stacks of books that went to the ceiling. In the center of the room stood a wooden podium engraved with images of horse-like creatures that could have been nothing but centaurs. Lyra glared hard at the reminder as she took a seat as far away from it as possible. "Oh good morning, students!" said a voice from somewhere behind the podium.

And then a round face covered in springy white hair popped up over the podium's top. "Welcome to Hogwarts! I am Professor Flitwick. I am the Head of Ravenclaw House."

He went on to call the role and at last Lyra learned the names of her new dorm mates. The red haired girl was called Ginny Weasley. The blonde one with the goop face was Melrose Pennyfeather and her friend was Cassidy Aragon. That left the last girl, the one who'd looked familiar to Lyra.

She was seated in the back of the class with Lyra and when she answered the role Lyra made sure to move as far along the bench from her as she could. "Sinclair, Mable," called Flitwick.

"Present!"

It had to be Veronica Sinclair's twin but with much darker hair and skin tone. At Lyra's obvious disgust, the girl gave her a very hurt look—as if she'd expected them to be friends or something. To Lyra though, that possibility was about as likely as her befriending a centaur and then expressing her long-concealed appreciation for owls.

She took out her parchment schedule, placed it face down in front of her and pretended to take notes for the rest of the period.

The next class of the day was History of Magic and it was taught by a ghost called Professor Binns who had even more boring things to say than Sir Nicholas. This class was let out early though as a strange little being called Peeves popped in through the back wall and proceeded to replace all the chalk with biting centipedes.

The ghost professor kept threatening to get the Bloody Baron whatever that was.

At last the Gryffindor first years were free for lunch. Lyra spent a good five minutes staring up at the overcast sky before filling her plate—it looked like it might rain again today which meant she'd have to put off running away for yet another day. The food was good though and after several futile attempts at conversation from the students around her, they left her well enough alone.

About halfway through the meal she felt a pair of eyes trained on her. Lyra looked up to the table at the front and was met with the merry gaze of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. Lyra was becoming quite sick of the man.

He waved to her and Lyra gave him an icy look. In his long fingers was a single gold coin much like the ones she'd taken from Goyle yesterday. He inclined his head toward the opposite end of the hall where sat the students in green and silver trimmed robes. Among them was Draco Malfoy with his gleaming blonde head and his two cronies.

Lyra pushed her plate away and stood up. She made sure to stomp and clomp her sneakers on the stone floor right past Veronica Sinclair and her friends and straight up to Goyle.

He didn't notice her though. Instead, Malfoy looked up and sneered, "Could you not stand so close. I don't want you contaminating our food."

Lyra picked up a chicken leg from his plate and licked it, "You mean like this?"

"Ugh! You filthy, disgusting mudblood, how dare you!" At his words, several students around them stopped what they were doing and looked over. Crabbe and Goyle stood up and cracked their knuckles together threateningly. Veronica Sinclair looked up and smirked.

One of the teachers descended from his place at the front of the hall and stalked over to them. He was a sallow-faced man with a hooked nose and greasy black hair.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"He—he came over here and licked my chicken, Professor!" exclaimed Malfoy, completely outraged.

The professor turned his dark, penetrating gaze on Lyra, "Who are you?"

"Lyra Black," she told him.

His gaze darkened. "And did you in fact do as Mr. Malfoy here is suggesting? Disgustingly juvenile though it may be?"

"Of course not," said Lyra, "I only came over to return these two gold coins I borrowed from Goyle here earlier. Clearly Mr. Malfoy is delusional."

"What?" roared Malfoy, "Crabbe, Goyle, you saw him, he came right over here and licked it."

Crabbe nodded stupidly, but Goyle was too busy examining his newly returned gold.

The professor silenced Malfoy and the students around him with a look. "Am I to understand that you are a muggleborn?" the professor asked silkily.

"No, I'm a muggle."

"I see," he replied, "In that case it will be three points from Gryffindor for stupidity and lying. And a detention this Friday in which I will see to it you gain some respect. Now go back to your table, Miss Black."

The day did not get any better from there. Transfiguration, Lyra's last class of the day, was taught by a very stern witch called Professor McGonagall. She also happened to be, much to Lyra's disgust, the Gryffindor Head of House.

McGonagall lectured them on the dangers of Transfiguration and then turned her desk into an orange orangutan and back again. It was extremely disturbing.

They took notes for at least an hour, and then she passed out a bunch of matchsticks intent that they should try to force them into needles. That was how she found out Lyra didn't have a single one of her school books, let alone a wand.

"Miss Black, were my instructions unclear or do you possess a lack of hearing?"

"Neither Professor," said Lyra, "But sometimes I wish for the second option."

"Two points from Gryffindor for failing to follow directions," said Professor McGonagall, "Now take out your book, open it to page 39 and get to work on that matchstick."

The professor waited for Lyra to move, to reach into her rucksack and take out the necessary materials, but Lyra did nothing.

"Is there a problem Miss Black?"

"I don't have the textbook," Lyra finally told her, "So I can't very well take it out, now can I?"

"That will be another point from Gryffindor for not bringing the appropriate materials to class."

The boys on the other side of the room glared at Lyra but she ignored them.

"Miss Weasley," said McGonagall, "Would you please share your book with Black here for the remainder of the period." Ginny grudgingly pushed her book close enough for Lyra to see. McGonagall waited again for Lyra to take out her wand and begin attempting to transfigure the match.

"What is it now, Black?"

"Well I don't have a wand either!" she snapped.

"Detention!" shouted McGonagall, "What sort of witch doesn't bother to carry her wand?"

"I don't have a bloody wand!" retorted Lyra, "And I'm not a witch, I'm a muggle!"

"Of course you are a witch! Muggles cannot even see Hogwarts let alone come inside and become such a nuisance." And then McGonagall swiped her wand through the air several times causing parchment, a quill, and a small bottle of ink to come sailing over from the teacher's desk. "Now, you will copy this page from the textbook twenty six times and you are not leaving this room until it is finished. Do you understand me, Black?"

"Fine."

She began to copy. It was difficult using a quill and ink for the first time—she had watched students using them enough throughout the day that she had a general idea of how they worked—but they still made a big mess all over her hands. When the Gryffindors left the class Ginny Weasley had been the only one to affect her match in even the slightest way, and it was still a far cry from a needle.

The Ravenclaw first years trickled in after Gryffindor, but Lyra was only on her third draft of the page from the book. She listened to McGonagall's lecture all over again and watched the witch change her desk into a furry grey mule this time. It was still disturbing.

As Lyra continued copying lines, she watched the Ravenclaw first years struggle now to convert their matchsticks to needles. They were not having any more luck than the Gryffindors and when McGonagall walked around to observe them she stopped before a girl with long dirty blonde hair and protuberant blue eyes.

"Miss Lovegood, did you too fail to bring you textbook to class today?"

"No professor," sang Lovegood, wide eyes focused on the opposite side of the room, "It's right here beneath my desk."

"And why, may I ask, is it down there rather than up here where you can read it?"

"I can read it just fine from where it is," Lovegood told the professor. Lyra didn't doubt it, the girl's eyes made up a fairly substantial portion of her face.

Lyra snorted in amusement.

"Problem, Miss Black?" said McGonagall, turning to glare at Lyra.

"No professor."

"Then I suggest you mind your own work."

"Yes professor."

"Now Miss Lovegood, why is it then, that you have not begun to change your matchstick into a needle?"

"Because it doesn't want to be a needle," explained Lovegood, "Things don't like to go around changing, you know."

Lyra was not the only one who laughed at that.

"Miss Lovegood, that is the entire point of Transfiguration, to change one thing into another."

"But it doesn't want to be a needle!" protested Lovegood.

"I don't care what it wants, it is going to become a needle," said McGonagall, "And stop laughing or I'll have all of you in detention!"

The Ravenclaws abruptly fell quiet. Lyra quieted just a little after the rest of them and earned McGonagall's ire once more. "And Black, you and I are going to have a little chat with the Headmaster after this."

There were several snickers at Lyra's expense, but the rest of the class was fairly quiet—everyone focused on transfiguring their matchsticks. When the Ravenclaws finally left, McGonagall regarded Lyra with tight lips and a severe expression.

"How many drafts have you made?"

"Thirteen," replied Lyra.

"Halfway done then," said McGonagall, "Pack your things. You'll finish the rest in detention this evening."

"Where are we going?" asked Lyra, carelessly stuffing the parchment, quill, and ink in her bag.

"To see the Headmaster as I told you earlier."

Lyra followed silently up to the very top floor of the school. There they came to a tall stone gargoyle and stopped. Lyra looked around, not seeing any doors or anything of interest. "Er, Professor?"

"Pepper Imp," said McGonagall.

"What?"

The stone gargoyle came to life and leaped out of the way to reveal a revolving spiral staircase. McGonagall motioned for Lyra to step onto the moving stairs, and then the professor herself stepped on the stair below her.

They ended up in front of a highly polished oak door. There was a brass knocker in the middle shaped liked a lion with the head of an eagle. Lyra made to reach for it but the door swung open before she had the chance.

"Good evening, Miss Black, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore from inside the office, "Do come in."

Lyra walked into a beautiful circular room with broad windows that showed the sun setting over a nearby mountain range. Surrounding the windows were shelves upon shelves filled with odd little devices and one that held that insufferable Sorting Hat. The rest of the wall space was made up of moving portraits.

Dumbledore was seated in a relaxed position behind the desk, an enormous, claw-footed affair. And though there were various papers laid out in front of him, it still seemed as though he had been expecting them.

"Have a seat," he offered politely, "Would you care for a cup of tea? Perhaps a lemon drop?"

"No thank you, Headmaster," said McGonagall sternly, "I am afraid we are here to discuss Miss Black's abysmal behavior in my class today."

Lyra did not protest. She was much too distracted by the strange looking bird perched on a stack of books across the room. It was the size of a swan with a brilliant golden beak, and crimson and gold plumage. It was also glaring at Lyra as though she'd tried to steal its babies.

"It's a phoenix, Miss Black," Dumbledore explained, "A creature of great magical power whose tail can carry tremendous loads and whose tears have healing properties."

"And what's its problem, then," said Lyra, "Why's it glaring at me like that?"

"Fawkes?" said Dumbledore.

The phoenix trilled one sad, sibilant note and then disappeared in a mass of flames.

Lyra jumped. McGonagall harrumphed in disdain.

"I shouldn't be surprised if that's the first thing Black's learned all day."

"Oh no," muttered Lyra, "I've also learned you're a mean old prune."

"You see, Headmaster! What an unpleasant child!"

"Miss Black," said Dumbledore warningly, "I should expect a great deal more respect in regards to your teachers here in the future."

"And why should I?" demanded Lyra, "I don't want to be here! I don't even have any school supplies. Or a wand…"

"That can of course be remedied. But you must first give me your word that you will comport yourself in a manner suited to your, certainly abundant though well-buried maturity, from this point forward."

"But I'm not staying here!" exclaimed Lyra and jumped out of her seat, "The first chance I get, I'm out of here! I'm running away again and I'm never coming back!"

For a long moment, Dumbledore considered her over his steepled fingers. His blue eyes bore into hers and Lyra felt distinctly uncomfortable, as though no one had ever looked at her so closely before. "You do not wish to stay at Hogwarts, Miss Black?" he finally asked her.

"What was your first clue?" she snapped, "I've been trying to tell you all along that I'm not a witch, and I'm not going to learn any of your infuriating, awful, stupid magic! I'm just not!"

Professor McGonagall looked quite taken aback by this exclamation. Her eyes were wide behind her square spectacles and her hand was pressed to her mouth.

"I see," said Dumbledore.

Lyra nodded and retook her seat.

"May I ask then, where it is you intend to go if not Hogwarts?"

"I… That is… Well you see…"

"Still undecided then," concluded Dumbledore, "Perhaps I might propose a compromise in the meantime, while you come to your final decision?"

Lyra gave him one long, wary look, "What sort of compromise?"

"A mutually beneficial one, of course. You see, I fear it may take quite a while for you to properly research all the different places where you might go. The world is quite wide after all. But the Hogwarts Library is also fairly extensive, and surely within the tomes there you might come to a proper, well-thought-out decision. Then of course during the period of your research, you can stay here at Hogwarts—."

"But—."

"No, no, not permanently. Only until you have decided where you would like to go. I only ask that while you are here, you pretend to be a student so as not to draw attention to yourself. Wave a wand around now and then, submit a homework assignment or two—nothing too extensive, but just enough so that the other students don't grow suspicious."

Lyra felt quite suspicious herself.

"But I won't actually be a student," she clarified.

"Certainly not," said the headmaster, "You admitted yourself that you are only a muggle. And as this is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it would hardly make any sense at all to _actually_ educate you."

Professor McGonagall made a noise of disbelief and Lyra narrowed her eyes.

"Say that I accept," she began, shifting her rucksack from one side of her chair to the other, "And that I go along with this… this scheme. What do I get out of it?"

"What do _you_ get?" scoffed McGonagall, "What do we, the teachers get? Apart from an unruly brat to deal with?"

"I can be plenty ruly when I want to be," Lyra told her scathingly.

"I've no doubt," said Dumbledore, "And in fact, it will be essential to the agreement that you prove it. As for what you will receive in return, Miss Black—along with nearly unlimited access to the Hogwarts library for your research, you will also be outfitted with all the school supplies needed, up to and including your own wand, to complete the subterfuge. And then of course, once you have decided where exactly you would like to go, you need only inform me and I will personally see to it that you are sent straight there."

"Even if it's Bora Bora?" said Lyra.

"Even if it's Jupiter," said Dumbledore.

Lyra considered the offer. She'd much rather leave Hogwarts today, but the Headmaster had a point. Lyra didn't have any idea where she would like to end up. The circus was out—it had been a ridiculous idea to begin with. But where else could she go? It was dangerous out there. There were murderers, and centaurs, and people who tried to abduct children, and centaurs…

It was much more prudent to bide her time within the walls of the school where she would at least be safe from harm.

"Alright, I'll do it," said Lyra.

"Lovely," said Professor McGonagall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Strange Steps**

The next day Lyra awoke to more tapping on the window outside her dormitory. The owl was back again and when Lyra opened the window, the bothersome thing flew in and made himself right at home at the top of her four-poster bed.

"What do you want now?" said Lyra, tossing herself back down onto the bed.

"Nothing, Black, so sod off."

Lyra peaked around the half-closed curtains of the bed beside her where Ginny Weasley was, surprise of surprises, scribbling away in that stupid diary of hers.

"I wasn't talking to you," said Lyra.

She looked up quickly, expression full of disbelief, "Who were you talking to then? I'm the only other person in this dormitory."

"I was talking to… to…" Lyra glanced over at the owl and wondered if it was exactly… _normal_ to speak to them the way she did. Owls certainly seemed more intelligent then the average creature, but still, part of her agreement with Dumbledore was that she would attempt to fit in.

Lyra traced the rough surface of the holly wand in her pocket while she considered. She hadn't thought anyone would steal it, exactly—it had just felt safer to keep something of value like that close to her body, even in sleep.

"Fine, I _was_ talking to you," said Lyra, "Why are you always writing in that thing?"

"Sod off, Black," repeated Weasley, and she got up, threw the curtains around her bed closed and stormed out of the dormitory.

"And they say I'm unpleasant."

The owl hooted in a way that Lyra felt could easily be construed as laughter. "Ruddy bird," she muttered and then reached down to the foot of the bed where yet another set of Hogwarts robes was awaiting her. She picked them up and was headed once again for the bathroom when she noticed a bit of golden stitching around the inside of the collar.

Two elegantly scripted letters gleamed out at her, _L.B._

Her initials? Did that mean these robes were now Lyra's? Lyra bit her lip and looked up at the stupid owl. He was too busy preening his feathers—apparently proud of himself for something—to acknowledge Lyra down below.

This was most likely Dumbledore's doing, she concluded.

"Your master is extremely annoying," Lyra told the owl and then left to get ready for the day. She was almost positive the headmaster must have something… anything better to do with his time apart from make her life a misery. And yet he seemed blissfully unaware of it.

The first class of the day was Defense Against the Dark Arts and by the end of it, everything Lyra had ever surmised about the exasperation caused by wizardkind was well and soundly confirmed.

She was late of course; after all she'd had no idea how to find the classroom. And it wasn't as if she wasn't trying either. She'd even asked for help! Unfortunately, the boy she'd asked—the only other person left in the Gryffindor Common Room by the time she got downstairs—hadn't been any help at all. When she'd politely asked him where to go, ("Oi! You, there! Tell me how to get to this blasted classroom will you!") he'd tripped over his robes, dropped all his books, and then run off saying something about being late for Potions.

Really, some people were just rude.

Lyra made it eventually though and it wound up only being the fourteenth (or maybe fifteenth) classroom she tried. She opened the door to a smiling man with perfectly coiffed blonde hair. He certainly didn't look like any sort of Defense Against the _Dark Arts_ teacher Lyra would have pictured, but the glares of her Gryffindor year mates seated around the room told her she'd found the right place at last—and also told her that her dislike for them was completely mutual.

And of course since it _was_ mutual, it didn't bother her. Not one bit.

Lyra stood in the doorway for a moment, not entirely sure what she should do with herself.

The professor, after the silent pause began to grow awkward, said brightly, "I do apologize, lad, but I'm afraid I cannot disrupt class to hand out autographs. You'll need to come back later."

There were a few snorts of amusement from the boys sitting nearest the window, Ritchie Coote and Arnold Lufkin, Lyra remembered their names were. She glared at them then turned back to the professor.

"Erm, autographs?" repeated Lyra. Perhaps it was another wizard thing?

"Persistent, aren't you?" he grinned, "Just the one then, I can't have you telling people I'm neglecting my professional duties, now can I?"

There was a stack of photos on the table by the door and with a flourish of the professor's bright, peacock feather quill, the topmost one was signed _Gilderoy Lockhart_.

Lyra stared at the moving, beaming man in the photograph, and then looked up at its subject. He was holding it out toward her with an air of great indulgence.

"I don't want that," said Lyra.

"Nonsense, you've come all this way. No need to be shy _now_, mister –?"

Lyra glared hard now, harder even than she'd glared at Lufkin and Coote. "I didn't come here for your bloody picture," she told him.

A hand waving in the air behind them distracted the brainless wizard from answering. He glanced down at a parchment with the class names and said, "Yes Miss Pennyfeather?"

"Professor Lockhart, sir, that's Black."

"Black?" repeated the man, and then his face brightened with understanding, "You mean _Lyra_ Black? My but that is a peculiar name for a b—."

"I'm not a boy!" snapped Lyra.

The man seemed only slightly abashed, and he said winningly, "Of course you're not, Miss Black, of course you're not," and then with a conspiratorial tone he added, "To tell you the truth though, Miss Black, I'd thought you weren't coming back at all after what happened with your Professor McGonagall yesterday. I'd heard you were expelled!"

Lufkin and Coote struggled to hide their sniggering behind their hands.

"I'm certain I don't know who gave you that idea," said Lyra darkly and she marched past him to take a seat far away from the boys, far away from Ginny Weasley and Mable Sinclair, and certainly not anywhere near her other two dorm mates.

The class was boring once it was started, but Lyra put forth a moderate effort to behave herself. Professor Lockhart told them all about the dangerous dark creatures he'd fought, and Lyra came to the conclusion that none of them could possibly be as dangerous as they sounded.

"And right when I thought there would be no escaping the Wagga Wagga Werewolf," said Lockhart, "I thought to myself, Gilderoy, aren't you a wizard, or aren't you?"

"And of course you must be wondering, how could someone like me, someone like _Gilderoy Lockhart_, possibly forget or possibly question such a thing—but in an atmosphere of grave danger… with my _very_ life on the line… well let's just say I didn't forget for long, and I very much doubt that werewolf will soon forget either."

She noticed the professor hadn't said a thing about centaurs.

Lyra managed through the rest of her classes well enough the first week—for the most part anyway. The parchment and quill Professor McGonagall had provided made it quite simple to pretend she was working or listening to a thing the professors were saying.

Instead of notes though, what Lyra actually had were doodles of all the places she might like to travel once she had decided where she would go. Tiny pictures of palm trees swaying in a warm breeze and sand castles made up most of her parchment, but a good majority of her drawings had to be scratched out simply because that git Lockhart had been there. He was annoyingly well-traveled.

The holly wand was also useful for looking like a student—not that Lyra had made it do anything, but when Professor McGonagall saw her waving it and muttering nonsense at her matchstick, the witch continued right past her with nothing more than a suspicious look.

Of course in Herbology, Lyra actually had to push up the sleeves of her robes and dig around in the dirt like the rest of the students—but that hardly even felt like magic so Lyra didn't really mind. And then, Professor Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff House had seemed an alright sort. Lyra rather wished she'd been put into _her_ House instead of McGonagall's.

The very last class of the week, however, was Potions and as Lyra had heard they were to have it with the Slytherins, and specifically Sinclair, she had not been looking forward to going. What's worse is that foul-tempered professor who'd assigned her a detention even before McGonagall would be there. She had a feeling the two of them would not get on well.

And so after lunch on Friday, Lyra followed the other Gryffindor first years down to the deepest, dankest part of the castle. There was a sullen air about the group as they crossed paths with first the Ravenclaws—who looked highly distraught as they climbed their way out of the castle's depths, and then the Hufflepuffs—who each looked ready to be sick.

The Slytherin first years were already inside and seated by the time they arrived and so to avoid all of Sinclair's friends, and the vast majority of Gryffindor, Lyra wound up in almost the front of the class next to a small, mousey haired Gryffindor called Colin Creevey.

The Potions Professor was just as crooked nosed and foul tempered as he had been at lunch the other day and he began the class with a soft, threatening voice, "I am Professor Snape, the Hogwarts Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House. You will answer when I call you with the word, _Present_, am I understood? Good. Ackleman, Henry."

"Present."

When the role was finished, Snape banished the list of names to his desk and eyed them all very seriously. "Potions," he began in a near-whisper, "Is a delicate art and a fine science which I doubt very few of you will even begin to comprehend."

Lyra could feel her classmates behind her, each on the edge of his or her seat straining to hear Snape's quiet voice. Lyra took out her parchment and felt the most inexplicable inspiration to draw several giant bats—with hooked noses.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic," continued Snape, his voice easily carrying throughout the dungeon classroom. "Many of you will never learn to appreciate the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron, nor the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…"

Beside her, Colin Creevey was nearly vibrating with eagerness, hair bobbing up and down on his head, and eyes alight with the professor's words.

Snape sneered at him, "And the world may very well be a safer place that you don't."

Colin gulped nervously, but somehow managed to look all the more thrilled for it.

"Black!" snapped Snape.

Lyra jerked to attention.

"What would I get if I fed you a potion that combined Jobberknoll feathers, armadillo bile, and ginger roots?"

Jobber-what? Lyra glanced around the classroom, receiving the typical glares from the Gryffindors and Slytherins alike. Colin, beside her, looked like he might just topple out of his seat in excitement, but he offered no help in answering the question.

"Um, nothing?"

"Very likely Miss Black," said Snape, "As one would need wits to begin with in order for the Wit-Strengthening Potion to have any effect."

Snorts of amusement sounded from all parts of the room behind her and Lyra scowled. Wizards, witches, Hogwarts, she'd nearly forgotten that she despised all of them. And come to think of it, she was almost positive she could find something to do with herself in Bora Bora. As soon as class was finished, Lyra would march right up to Dumbledore's office and demand he send her there.

"Do not forget you have detention after class today, Miss Black," said Snape.

More chuckling.

"Yes sir," muttered Lyra.

Snape nodded sharply then continued on to the rest of the class, "Mr. Credo, what would I get if I added a powered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"The Draught of Living Death, sir," said Credo.

Lyra continued scowling for the rest of the day. She was paired with Colin to make a potion to cure boils and as Lyra didn't have a Potions book herself, she was forced to do everything Colin said, exactly as he said it. "Mix those dried nettles, but not _too_ much! It says here, 'until they form a mottled paste'. Can you do that, Lyra? Only I've never made a potion before, isn't it fascinating?"

Then, "Crush those snake fangs, but not with that part of the pestle! The other side, Lyra, the other side! Look Lyra, see the diagram? See how it's moving? Amazing, isn't it? My dad's just a milkman, he'd never believe I could do this!" and finally "Watch the fire now Lyra, I'm going to try to heat it, but not too much! But don't let the fire die out either, got it Lyra? Got it?"

Colin's boundless enthusiasm was made all the worse by Professor Snape, who similarly had a boundless supply of annoying comments, though his were a heck of a lot more insulting. Things like, "Black, stir those slugs, or are you incapable of such a simple task?" and "Black, you've spilled pus on the floor, does your incompetence know no end?"

Thankfully, he also swept around the classroom like a tyrant, criticizing all the rest of the Gryffindors just as much as he did Lyra. "Miss Pennyfeather, are you daft? Do not add those porcupine quills until you have removed the cauldron from the fire, idiot girl!"

"Mr. Coote, I had assumed at least a semblance of a brain resided between your ears, but clearly there is nothing but air. This potion is useless. _Evanesco_."

Lyra watched the boy's potion disappear and almost… almost stopped scowling for a moment, after all, he deserved it. And derisive comments or not, Snape had yet to disappear _her _potion. But then Colin had to grab her by the arm to keep her from stirring the potion too much and she was angry all over again. She really did not appreciate help from the likes of Colin Creevey.

When class ended, Lyra stayed in her seat while the rest of her classmates filed out, eager for dinner and the start of their weekend.

Snape remained as well and he gave Lyra a nasty look before setting her to her task—scrubbing cauldrons clean.

"Since you are a muggle, Miss Black," began Snape, "I'm sure there is no need for me to say this, but I will say it nonetheless, No Magic. You are to clean these cauldrons by hand. I shall know if it is otherwise."

With that, he stalked out the dungeon door and let it slam closed behind him. Lyra glanced around at the many jars of pickled animal parts, specifically the eyeballs that were stored on the shelves nearest her—did Snape have spies too?

Lyra removed her wand from her pocket and was tempted to use it just to spite the man—not that she had any clue how to go about cleaning cauldrons with it, but how difficult could it be? She jabbed her wand a few times at the nearest cauldron. It was caked with a burgundy colored substance that smelled like feet and Lyra felt she would enjoy cleaning that one least of all.

She tried saying a variety of nonsense words, including the phrase McGonagall had them practicing to change a matchstick into a needle, but the holly wand Dumbledore had given her remained useless in her hands.

Huh. Maybe she really was a muggle? Lyra rummaged around in her pocket for one of the matchsticks she'd stuffed there earlier. With one careful look around to make sure nobody could see her, she placed the matchstick on top of an overturned cauldron and said the spell, carefully arching her wand the proper way and adding the little flourish at the end which that page in Weasley's Transfiguration book had waxed on about.

For the first time since Lyra had touched her wand, it felt warm in her hands and emitted a brown and gold spark. In the next moment her matchstick had lengthened and thinned, glinting silver in the faint light of the dungeon.

It was a needle.

And not a bad looking one either.

McGonagall likely would have showed it off to the class the same way she had Weasley's. And wasn't that a disgusting thought.

Lyra tossed the needle away from her and it rolled under the student supply cupboard on the opposite side of the room. She set to her task then, pushed up the sleeves of her robes, and gritted her teeth as she scrubbed and scrubbed.

Her hands were raw and grubby when she heard a knock outside the Potions classroom several hours later. And as if she wasn't having a bad enough day already, Draco Malfoy along with his two buffoons strolled in—Malfoy strutting around as if he were important, then Crabbe and Goyle ambling about as if they possessed a brain.

"What do you want," said Lyra.

Malfoy's pale head looked almost green in the eerie light of the dungeon, but he crossed his arms and regarded Lyra like she was so low that an ant would look down upon her. "Manners?" he said simply.

"Oh, so you have heard of them then," replied Lyra.

"Of course I've heard of them!" snapped Malfoy, cheeks coloring slightly, "I meant you should learn how to use them! Unless you're too stupid, that is," he added snidely.

Lyra glanced pointedly at Malfoy's companions, "Speaking of stupid…"

"What are you doing here anyway, Black?" said Malfoy through clenched teeth, "Where's Professor Snape? I have something very important I need to speak to him about."

"Professor Snape?" repeated Lyra dully, "You didn't hear then, did you?" she continued solemnly, tossing her worn rag down into the nearest cauldron, "Oh but it was horrible, wasn't it? The poor professor! I feel just awful about it."

"What are you on about?"

"About Professor Snape, of course. I'd have thought they would have told you, after all, he is your Head of House, isn't he?"

"Just spit it out Black!"

"Is something the matter with Professor Snape?" said Goyle stupidly, scratching his head as he looked around the classroom.

Crabbe shrugged.

"It was the potion that did it," began Lyra, "Everyone in Gryffindor says it was an accident, but I'm not convinced. Melrose Pennyfeather, have you heard of her?"

One nod and two more shrugs from the buffoons.

"Well she added the porcupine quills before she took her potion off the fire. Mel managed to duck out of the way in time, but Professor Snape was right there beside her and well… it melted his face right off."

Goyle looked absolutely stricken by the news. Crabbe appeared morbidly fascinated, "His face came off?" he said with a soft voice, a voice that contrasted humorously with his wide stature.

Lyra nodded gravely.

"You're a filthy liar," said Malfoy.

"Liar? _Liar?_ By the Queen herself, I tell you the skin came clean off his face! It came off in bubbling little puddles on the floor just there! And there!" she exclaimed, pointing to the spot where Goyle was standing.

He jumped back and looked like he might be sick.

"Black! Stop your insufferable yelling at once!" commanded a new, menacing voice.

Dressed in black from head to toe and with a penetrating glare which made Lyra flinch, it was difficult for Lyra to summon her next words. She persevered though.

"Why Professor Snape, you're alright! I was so worried!"

"Clearly," said Snape tightly, "Scrubbing the cauldrons clean was not nearly enough to rid you of your atrocious lack of respect for your elders."

Lyra sighed and picked up her rag, "Sorry, Professor."

Malfoy smirked at her from behind Snape's back but she ignored it.

"You will report to the trophy room tomorrow evening for another detention—this time with the caretaker Argus Filch. Eight o'clock sharp, and do not even _think_ about being late."

Lyra wanted to complain. She wanted to say that the caretaker was a crotchety old man who hated everyone—and was therefore bound to doubly hate Lyra. She would have even liked to point out how unfair it was that she'd not even been at Hogwarts for a full week and already she'd be serving her third detention.

Instead she just said, "Fine, Professor."

"Let us hope you learn something this time. I daresay you will not find any subsequent detentions with me half as enjoyable as the one you had tonight."

Malfoy sniggered at her, and even Crabbe and Goyle managed faint grins at her expense. But Lyra was not about to ruin her chance at freedom by acknowledging the idiots.

"Does that mean I'm dismissed for tonight, then?"

Snape scowled, "Yes. Go back to your dormitory."

"But what about dinner?" she immediately protested.

"Dinner was finished over an hour ago, now return to your dormitory at once."

"Fine."

Her stomach gave one angry growl at the news, but Lyra shushed it then pressed her ear to the door as soon as she was outside. She was not about to miss whatever it was that Malfoy had to say.

It was something important, he'd said. But that could mean anything, couldn't it? Was he planning on dropping out of school? Had he seen a rouge centaur running about the castle? Did he know some juicy secret about the headmaster?

Lyra was sorely disappointed to discover that Malfoy had only come down to talk to his Head of House about Quidditch of all things. Apparently he was the new Seeker for the Slytherin House team and therefore needed time to practice during the Gryffindors' previously scheduled field time. This apparently required signed permission from a professor.

Ugh, how dull. Lyra turned around and trudged back up toward Gryffindor tower in a haze of distaste. The stupid portraits watched her as she walked and Lyra glowered at each of them.

"Wha—ahem. Ahem, say, you there," said one near the third floor. It was the portrait of a very serious looking wizard with a small face and a long, pointed auburn beard, "You, young man, yes you there!" he said when Lyra looked at him, "I wouldn't go that way if I were you."

"I'm not a young man," said Lyra irritably, "I'm a girl," and she continued on her way to the top of the stairs.

There were indeed strange, somewhat ominous noises coming from the opposite end of the corridor, but Lyra did not stop. She walked determinedly forward until suddenly, an odd little man dressed in a bell-covered hat and an orange bow tie came spinning out of an armor helmet. It was the school's poltergeist, Peeves, a being that would quickly find a place on Lyra's list of creatures and entities which she absolutely loathed—right up there with owls, headmasters, and dirigible plums.

Lyra had only seen him once before in Professor Binns' class.

"Ooh, tis an ickle firstie, lost and wanderin' the corridors alone," said Peeves in a sing-song voice, "I ought ta show 'er back to her dormitory, I ought. Let Peevsie be your guide, you shan't be lost for long."

Lyra considered. "No."

She began to walk away.

"But Peevsie knows a shortcut he does!" exclaimed the floating little man, and he tapped a finger to his button nose.

She should have left. She should have said, "Stuff it, Peeves," and marched right back up to Gryffindor Tower. She was almost halfway up as it was, what did she need a shortcut for anyway? Instead she said, "What sort of shortcut?"

"What sort of shortcut, she asks? What sort? The short sort! The shortest! Tis the only sort there is!"

"Fine then, which way is it?"

Peeves soared straight for her, and cackling madly, grabbed at her face. "Conk! Got your nose!"

Lyra whipped around, "Oi, why did you—?" she trailed off and observed as the poltergeist examined the statue of a witch that very well might have been Snape's great-grandmother. With tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in concentration, Peeves grabbed the statue's long, hooked nose and gave it a twist.

Suddenly the stones in the wall behind the statue began to fold in on themselves. Dust fell in clouds from the opening and soon a dark, cobweb-filled passage was revealed.

"And this leads up to Gryffindor Tower?" asked Lyra, stepping into the dark tunnel.

Peeves cackled and spun around in the air, "Leads this a'way and that a'way." He pointed a knobby little finger up and then down. "Just follow ol' Peevsie, he'll take you where you ought to go, he will."

After a few steps, the wall reassembled itself behind them, leaving only the faintest light from some torch Lyra couldn't quite see. That was when she first began to realize that this might not have been one of her more brilliant ideas.

"Peeves, are you sure this is the right way?" asked Lyra as they began down a narrow, spiraling staircase. The staircase groaned beneath Lyra's weight and Lyra held tight to the thin handrail. "Only, Gryffindor Tower is up, not down, isn't it?"

"Nearly there, nearly there!" he sang, and then started up a whole new song of his own invention. Lyra tried to stay close as they ducked under a low-hanging archway and she carefully climbed over a pile of old stone bricks into a chamber that was wide and stout. Peeves pointed toward what appeared to be the back of a dusty tapestry that depicted several knights seated about a table.

There was a step just before the tapestry which Lyra would need to climb in order to pass through, but just as she did, Peeves whizzed by her, singing louder than ever: "Asked Peevsie where to go, did firstie Lyra Black, but she was much too slow, and now she won't come back!"

"What?"

Lyra tried to follow Peeves, but it was too late, her feet were both stuck in what felt like very sticky fudge. "Oi, Peeves! You get back here! Get me out of this!"

She had sunk down into the step itself and no matter how hard she tried, Lyra couldn't manage to pull herself free. In her struggles she wound up falling forward, pushing the tapestry just enough so that she was half laying out the other side of the doorway it concealed.

"Oomph."

Lyra could just imagine what she looked like now. Her feet up to her ankles were stuck in another room behind a tapestry, while the rest of her, from the knees up lay sprawled out on the floor of a stone-covered hall.

It wasn't very comfortable either—and Peeves was zooming about the room like a tornado, clanking suits of armor and bouncing off candelabras as he sang: "Firstie Lyra Black, that ducky's out of luck! Tried to follow Peevsie, now she's stuck, stuck, stuck!"

"Get me out!" Lyra yelled at him, but he only winked at her and left, singing that song as he went.

Lyra harrumphed. She was alone in a room she soon realized was the Entrance Hall of the school—about as far from Gryffindor Tower as she could possibly be. It was late; past curfew even (not that Lyra cared about that sort of thing) and if Percy Weasley or one of his blithering prefect friends discovered her there, she'd likely lose even more points for Gryffindor (not that Lyra cared about that sort of thing either—that would be ridiculous).

She debated calling for help. She would very much prefer to be up in Gryffindor Tower, preparing for bed like the rest of her dorm mates, but she couldn't quite stomach the idea of Professor McGonagall or worse discovering her there.

She was in a humiliating position and she had no idea which dormitories were nearest. What if she managed to rouse one of the Slytherins—like Malfoy or Sinclair? Malfoy would have one of his enormous friends stomp on her fingers if he found her there. And Sinclair would likely curser her!

Lyra struggled with attempting to pull herself free for several more minutes before she finally gave up. By midnight she had long since accepted that she would just have to sleep there on the stone floor and her new goal was to roll over enough to make herself comfortable.

Nothing seemed to do the trick though and so Lyra was filled with enormous relief when the tall, oaken front doors of the school jiggled and then opened just wide enough for a slip of a girl to fit through.

It was a girl Lyra instantly recognized. And there was absolutely no way she had permission to be outside on the school grounds at this time of night. But Lyra was hardly the sort to make a fuss about it.

"Lovegood!" she called, "Lovegood, over here!"

The Ravenclaw girl from Lyra's very first Transfiguration lesson looked all around her before spying Lyra where she was sprawled out on the ground. The girl's expression was thoughtful as she approached and when she came to a stop just beside Lyra's head, she brushed a hand through her long, tangled hair dislodging several leaves and broken twigs.

"Do you often spend your evenings here?" asked Lovegood.

"What? No, of course not! I'm… I'm stuck here. Help me free, would you?"

Lovegood considered her with a pair of great big, curious eyes. There was dirt smudged on the girl's chin and under her fingernails and Lyra began to feel a bit curious herself as to exactly what Lovegood had been doing out there.

"What do you mean, stuck? Mentally or Physically?"

"Physically!" exclaimed Lyra, "And what were you doing outside, anyway? Were you… were you out in the _forest_?"

Lovegood tilted her head to the side and moved even closer. "Just taking a stroll," she said, and then moved her hands over the tapestry. It gave way just enough to reveal the dark chamber behind it. "A secret passage!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"Yes I'd noticed," retorted Lyra, "Now help me out of it!"

Lovegood was much too absorbed in putting her hand, and then her arm, and then her entire body into the chamber to answer. At one point she removed—of all things—a wilted dirigible plum from her cloak pocket and tossed it into the hidden room. And then she picked it up, sniffed it, and put it right back in her pocket.

"Oi, didn't you hear me, I said help me out of here!" exclaimed Lyra, voice laced with irritation.

Lovegood immediately stopped what she was doing and turned to Lyra. She looked surprised to see her there, as if she hadn't just stepped over her half a dozen times to get back and forth between the Entrance Hall and the chamber.

"Well, aren't you going to help me out?"

"What's your name?"

"Lyra Black, but I don't see how that has anything to do with getting me out of this—."

"You shouldn't be here!" said Lovegood suddenly, as if it had only just occurred to her. She backed away nervously and quickly looked back and forth, searching for teachers.

"I know I shouldn't be here!" said Lyra, "And frankly, neither should you! So how about you help get me out of here and then we both go back to our dormitories for the night, yes?"

Lovegood still looked unsure, so Lyra exhaled and tried something she didn't do very often. "Look," she began seriously, "It's Luna, right?"

Lovegood nodded.

"I… I'm sorry that I laughed at you in Transfiguration the other day. It was… it was wrong, and I didn't mean it. I'm just… sorry, alright?"

Lyra glared furiously down at the ground after her apology, not entirely certain she'd gone about it the right way and more than a little embarrassed. It was quiet in the hall afterward and Lovegood was taking so long to answer that Lyra's embarrassment was beginning to fade—to fade and transform to curiosity.

When she looked up though, it was only to find the girl was in turn watching Lyra very closely—as though she were a new species of animal behaving in a most unheard of fashion.

Lovegood's head was still tilted to the side and her wide eyes were almost glistening in the faint light of the Entrance Hall torches. A clock struck one somewhere in the castle's belfry.

"There is a stairway that leads up to Ravenclaw Tower," replied Lovegood at last.

"Er, right, that makes sense?"

"Every hour, at half the hour, the stair halfway up turns into a trick step. All the Ravenclaws know about it, but sometimes when somebody is really distracted… with wrackspurts most likely… they'll get stuck in it."

"Oh, um… _Oh_, so does that mean you know how to get me out?"

Lovegood leaned down so that she was halfway in the hidden chamber, halfway out. Lyra rolled over as much as she could to see what the girl was doing. She found it most peculiar: Lovegood held all her hair in a bunch, much like a feather duster, and was busy twirling it lightly around on the edge of the step.

"What are you—?"

"Aa-choo!"

The trick step freed her feet at once.

"Did it just… did it just sneeze?" asked Lyra.

Lovegood nodded and smiled.

"Brilliant."

"Most things are," agreed Lovegood.


End file.
